Powerless (18 page)

 

“I
guess it's just us,” Greg Connor says as he steps through the door of their apartment.

“What do you mean ‘just us'? They're going to stay here with no heat and no water?” Lara Connor says.

“I guess so. I almost had the Scotts talked into leaving, but they felt traveling with their two young kids would be too difficult. They want to wait the crisis out, hoping the electricity will come back on.”

“Did you tell them what Kaylee told us?”

“Yes, but I think it fell on deaf ears.”

“What about the others?”

“About half wouldn't even open their doors. The rest weren't interested in leaving.”

“Well, that's just fucking great.” Lara spins away from her husband and returns to her perch at the window. “So, we're going out there alone?”

“We don't have any choice. As I said earlier, we'll be better off with only the two of us.” Greg enters the kitchen and reaches for the last of the gallon of water. He's winded and thirsty from clumping up and down six flights of stairs. He pours only a half glass and chugs it in one gulp and returns the glass to the cupboard.

“I don't know, Greg,” Lara says from across the room, fear leaking into her voice.

Greg crosses the space and sits on the window seat, facing his wife. She turns from the window and locks eyes with her husband. With a deep sigh she collapses into his arms, snuggling up against his chest.

“I know you're scared. I am, too. But we have to leave.”

She nods, her tears wetting the front of his shirt. Greg holds her and gently rocks his body, trying to soothe not only his wife, but his own surging fear. Lara leans away and wipes at the tears, sniffling.

“Okay, Greg.” She pushes out of her seat, still wiping her cheeks as she walks into the bedroom. Greg watches her retreat, a sudden longing stirring deep inside. He follows Lara into the bedroom and envelops her in a standing embrace.

“I love you, Lara,” he says, leaning down to kiss her. Her body responds to the kiss—the fear, the uncertainty, the difficulties ahead, all fade away as they take turns removing each other's clothing and collapsing onto the unmade bed. Their lovemaking is tender at first, but morphs into a deeper intensity, more animal-like, as they release the built-up tension that has invaded their lives. Neither has showered or shaved in over a week, but none of that matters as they quicken their movements, each uttering breathless words as they reach climax. Spent, they slide under the covers for warmth, and await the coming darkness.

Greg stirs awake sometime later, the last of the sun's brightness fading, the clouds a pink and purple smudge on the on the orange horizon. He turns to stare at his still-sleeping wife, a mixture of emotions stirring his mind. After lightly kissing her forehead, he slips from beneath the covers and pads into the bathroom, relieving himself in the bucket. He puts on his clothing and grabs an extra pair of jeans and a shirt and folds them into the backpack Lara had already started packing.

Quietly, he exits the bedroom and walks to the kitchen, where he opens the junk drawer and begins pulling out items: two flashlights, extra batteries, scissors, a roll of duct tape, and a small knife. Meager supplies for a potentially dangerous overland trek. From another drawer he pulls out two of the largest chef's knives they own. One he puts on the counter with the other supplies, the other he slips under his belt.

“What else do we need?” he mutters as he stands back to take stock of the items he's already accumulated. The cell phones on the counter are useless, but he moves one to the pile along with a charger, in case the miraculous happens. Soft footsteps sound and he glances up to see his wife, still nude from their lovemaking.

“Thank you for that, Greg,” she says softly as she steps across the room and wraps her arms around him.

Lara's a tall, slender woman, and Greg winces as he runs his hands along the ribs now pressing against her skin. Her once-lustrous hair cascades over her narrow shoulders in clumps.

He leans down and kisses her. “I think we both needed that.” He sniffs the air. “You put on perfume?”

“Hey, if I can't take a shower, the least I can do is mask the odor.” Her hot breath warms Greg's chest. She looks up into his face, a trace of fear in her eyes, but a much more contented, maybe resigned, look on her face.

He gives her bare ass a light tap. “You better put some clothes on before you catch a cold.”

She releases him and turns back for the bedroom. Over her shoulder she says, “I think a cold would be the least of our problems.”

He tries to lighten her suddenly serious mood. “Hey, have I told you lately how perfect your little ass is?”

She stops and turns, brushing away a stray strand of hair. “You used my two favorite words—little and perfect,” she says with a smile before turning back for the bedroom.

Greg walks to the coat closet and retrieves their warmest coats and an additional shoulder bag for the items on the counter. It's not cold enough now to justify the heavy coats, but it will be soon. He also grabs a couple of lighter jackets they'll need now. “How the hell are we going to carry all of this stuff?” he mutters as he lays the items on the sofa.

Now dressed, Lara enters from the bedroom, the backpack slung over her shoulder. “I packed the toothbrushes and toothpaste.”

“Good. Can't let our teeth go to seed. You pack what few meds we had left?”

She nods and places the backpack next to the coats. “I sure wish we had some type of weapon.”

Greg points to the knife tucked in his belt.

“I meant something that shoots, Captain Hook . . . or maybe you're an older Johnny Depp. But your hair is a little shorter and a lot grayer.”

“I don't have access to a Hollywood stylist at the moment.” He pulls the knife from his belt and brandishes it like a sword. “As for weapon, this is it. Maybe we'll run across one out on the streets.”

“That's what I'm afraid of, Greg. And most likely it'll be pointed in our direction.”

“We'll just have to be careful, stay out of sight as best as we can,” he says, walking to the counter and pushing the supplies off into the bag. “Ready?”

“No. But I guess that doesn't matter,” Lara says, shrugging into her jacket.

They gather up their items and descend the six flights of stairs, pausing for a moment in the lobby. Lara puts her nose to the lobby window and swivels her head from left to right.

“See anything?” Greg says.

“Nothing, but it's too dark to see very far.”

“Exactly,” Greg says, pushing the lobby door open, Lara following closely behind.

 

O
ff to the west a line of angry clouds is riding low on the horizon as Zeke repositions himself in the saddle, trying to spare at least one ass cheek. The wind had shifted to the north and now has a bite. He tugs his jacket from the saddlebag and tries to put it on while maintaining his grasp on the reins. He and the horses are weary from a full day of riding. Pulling on Murphy's reins, he brings the parade to a stop so he can slide on his jacket. He takes the map from his back pocket and spreads it across the saddle horn.

He glances at the approaching clouds before turning to the horizon in front of him. A small cluster of buildings is jammed up close to the road a good ways in the distance. The landscape is as flat as one of his tabletops, allowing him to see for miles. He figures the distance to the small community to be about five miles. He checks the map and finds that Celina, Texas, is the next town—about eight miles north of Frisco. Still too damn far from his sister's home. He clucks his tongue to get Murphy started as he begins scanning the sides of the road in search of shelter.

The wind increases and the first splatters of rain start to fall. The next house up is a large home with an elaborate gated entrance, but they pass by. The home doesn't feel right to Zeke. But his options are dwindling with each step down the road. He spies a group of willows huddled up next to a dry creek and thinks about seeking shelter there, but the cold rain urges him forward.

As they turn a bend in the road Zeke spots an old farmhouse with a large barn set off to the side a little ways ahead. Most likely a family farm that had supported the same family for several generations, he thinks. Two large green tractors sit idle next to the home. The rain drips from the brim of his hat as he dismounts Murphy and leads the three horses up the gravel drive. The house is a one-level rancher dressed in white clapboards in need of a paint job. A low-slung roof hangs over a wide-plank wood-floor porch.

The heavy rain masks his approach, but he doesn't spot any flickering candles through the dusty windows. A faint odor of wood smoke hangs in the air. He ties Murphy's reins around a low limb of an old oak tree and unzips his jacket for easy access to the Glock. He slowly works his way toward the front door, hoping that if someone is watching from inside his movements won't be perceived as threatening. He steps onto the porch out of the rain and removes his hat, shaking the water off before knocking on the screen door.

No answer, so he steps over to the front window for a peek inside. No movement. But the darkened skies don't allow for much light to penetrate the interior. He reaches back over and gives the screen door a more determined knock. Nothing. Desperate for shelter, he walks back to the horses and unties Murphy's reins. He puts his foot in the stirrup and pauses before pulling himself back into the saddle. “Screw it,” he mutters, removing his foot and grabbing up the reins again. He leads the horses toward a gate fronting a ramshackle barn in need of much more than paint. The tin roof is rusted through in spots and one corner sags several inches below the rest of the structure. But it promises some relief from the rain. As his hand reaches for the chain securing the gate someone shouts from behind him.

He whirls around to see a rifle barrel pointed in his direction. No shotgun this time, but a high-powered rifle held by an extraordinarily beautiful woman with wet hair plastered to her skull. A long, dark slicker shrouds her body and she has a determined grip on the rifle. Zeke reaches for the sky, Murphy's reins still in his hand.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” the woman shouts over the rain.

“I was hoping to bed down in the barn for the night. I was going to ask permission but no one answered the door.”

“So you were just going to make yourself at home?”

“Well . . .” He pauses, struggling for the right answer. “Yeah, I guess I was. At least, at home in the barn.”

“Who are you?” she shouts. The rain is dripping from her beautiful face, but the rifle never wavers, tucked tight against her narrow shoulder.

“My name's Zeke Marshall. I'm on my way to bring my sister and her family back home to Oklahoma. They're in Dallas, and I expect they're in dire straits by now.” His arms are weary from holding them skyward so he lowers them to his side and gives them a quick shake to get the blood back in his hands. She hasn't shot him yet, so he continues. “Ma'am, I mean you no harm. I was just looking for a dry place to bed down and feed the horses.” He steps up to Murphy and puts his foot in the stirrup. “I'll move along,” he says over his shoulder.

The rifle lowers and the woman takes several tentative steps in his direction. She stops about twenty feet away. “Go ahead. But I want you gone by morning.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I'll be out of here at first light.”

He returns to the gate and leads the three horses through and closes it behind him. The woman stands in the downpour, watching his every step. He slides the large barn door open just wide enough to lead the horses inside. Musty-smelling, but dry. Stacked in the corner is a good supply of hay, while the other side of the barn is dedicated to an assortment of old machinery and other items collected from a lifetime of farming. He removes the saddle and blanket from Murphy's back and unloads the supplies from the two mares. After untying the horses from one another, he pours a generous pile of oats onto the hay-littered floor and all three hungrily eat.

Zeke digs through the saddlebag to find something for
him
to eat, his first meal of the day. He discovers two peanut butter sandwiches his mother had packed, as if she were packing his school lunch so long ago. He carries the sandwiches over to a corner of the barn and sits gently on one of the hay bales. His ass is sore from being in the saddle and the densely packed hay offers little comfort, but at least the bale is stationary. He wolfs down one of the sandwiches and follows it with a long drink from his canteen. The little remaining water sloshes near the bottom, and he realizes he needs to water the horses again and refill the canteen.

The second sandwich he eats at a more leisured pace as he looks over his surroundings. It's like stepping back in time, seeing some of the old tools arranged on the pegboard hanging above an old workbench. With sandwich in hand, he stretches the kinks from his back and strolls over. Most of the tools are much older than he is, and some he can't determine their use, but many he's familiar with. He saunters toward the barn door and slides it back far enough to peek at the house. The woman is gone, presumably back indoors out of the rain. He turns his head the other way and spots a stock tank full of water. An old-fashioned hand pump stands nearby. Not knowing if his stay in the barn allows him access to the other accommodations, he's going to have to take a chance and pray she doesn't shoot him from the sniper's perch he envisions in his mind.

Zeke walks back to the horses, clips a lead to each of their halters, and grabs his canteen. After zipping up his jacket, he eases the door open a little wider and glances back at the house before stepping out. The rain has lessened and the horses, thirsty from the coarseness of the oats, nearly send him tumbling in their haste to get to the water tank. After another glance over his shoulder to make sure a gun barrel isn't pointing in his direction, he walks to the old hand pump and pumps the handle. A clear stream of water jets from the end of the pump. Zeke refills his canteen and takes a long pull directly from the cold, clear stream, dislodging the peanut butter clinging to the roof of his mouth.

The horses finish drinking and take the opportunity to do their business, as three fresh piles of horseshit drop. He wonders whether his gun-toting host would like him to pick up after the horses. But how? It's not like you can bag it. Other droppings are scattered around, but he hasn't seen any other animals. He makes the decision to leave the horseshit where it landed and leads the horses back into the barn. It's now nearly dark, helped along by the dense cloud cover, but it's not too late. Zeke guesses the time is somewhere around six.

The aroma of a wood fire and what smells like cooking meat rides the wind through the cracks of the old barn, making his not-yet-full stomach rumble. He walks from one side of the barn to the other, looking through the gaps in search of the source. He finds a standard-sized door at the back of the barn and steps outside to see the gun-toting woman at the back of the house cooking over a smoky fire. She's probably a hundred yards away, so he snuggles up next to the barn and observes.

Her movements are precise as she stirs whatever's cooking. Zeke doesn't know if she's cooking for one or if there's a house full of people to feed. He didn't get the sense that a large number of people inhabited the house from his brief peek, but they could have been hiding. She's not yet looked in this direction and he's fairly certain that she couldn't see him even if she did. She pushes her wet hair out of her face as she returns inside.

Zeke takes advantage of her absence and sends a steamy stream of piss into the tall grass bunched up near the edge of the barn. The temperature, miserably hot in the afternoon, has dropped maybe twenty degrees, the dampness making it feel downright cool.

He returns inside to search through the dimness for a lantern or some other light source and comes up empty. Anything of use was probably transferred to the house days ago, he reasons. He steps back over to his stash and stretches out on the floor, using a bale of hay for a backstop. He digs into one of the saddlebags and retrieves one of the two paperbacks he had packed. This one is a Louis L'Amour western from his father's collection of books. He opens to the dog-eared page and has just enough light to make out the words. The reading helps to take his mind away from the miserable accommodations.

Eventually, the gloomy dusk gives way to full dark. He stows the book and starts thinking about tomorrow's journey. If all goes as planned he should be in the northern part of Dallas by sunset. That would put him at Ruth's house by midnight or early the next morning if he beds down one more night. Of course his planning is based on a steady pace with no interruptions—surely a fool's plan. His scheming is interrupted when a slash of light flares between the cracks of the old barn siding.

He tugs down the zipper of his jacket and checks to make sure his pistol is still riding in the holster. He makes no effort to stand and assumes his least threatening pose. The light slashes again and from the pattern he can tell that it is someone walking his way waving a flashlight. He turns toward the squeal of the barn door to see the woman enter. Her silhouette is all that is visible behind the bright beam. She slowly advances, holding something in her other hand. Zeke moves his hand to the butt of his semiautomatic.
Did she come to shoot him for his horses?

She stops a good distance away. “Do you have something to eat?”

“I have a peanut butter sandwich if you would like it,” he says.

“No, that's not what I meant. Would you like some food?”

“If it's what I smelled cooking earlier, yes.”

She steps closer and he spots the murder weapon—a plate covered with foil. Beyond the light he sees that she has switched from lugging the big rifle to a pistol now riding high on her waist in an old leather holster.

She stretches to hand him the plate.

“I won't bite. I promise.” He reaches out and takes the offered plate.

“It's venison. I got lucky and brought down a deer early this morning.”

“It smells wonderful,” he says, removing the foil wrapper. With the fork she provided he feeds the first bite into his mouth and savors the feel of the hot meat on his tongue.

He waves the fork in her direction. “Pull up a bale of hay and have a seat if you want.”

She steps back and he thinks that maybe he's frightened her, but she takes a seat.

“I also brought a lantern so that you wouldn't injure yourself in the middle of the night.” She pumps up the lantern, flicks a lighter, and gently pushes it in without melting the cloth mantles. Once the lantern flickers to life, she extinguishes the flashlight. Zeke takes a moment for his first up-close look at his host. Maybe midthirties, Zeke thinks. Her red hair is a tangle of springy curls and two dimples form on her cheeks when the smiles. She has a splash of freckles across her small, upturned nose. Her lips are full and her oval face is in proportion to her thin frame. Zeke wishes the light were bright enough to see the color of her eyes.

“What have you heard during your travels?”

“To tell you the truth, you're the first person that I've talked to other than an old man who let me water the horses earlier today. So I haven't heard much, but I know from my father's intermittent shortwave radio that most of North America is without power. Some type of geomagnetic storm.”

“Did you hear anything about when it will be repaired?”

“No, I didn't. But I think it could be a long time before they have all the power back up and running. That's according to my dad, who's somewhat of a science nerd.”

The first glimmer of a smile forms on her beautiful face.

“Have you heard anything?”

“No, I haven't ventured much past the main road.” She changes the subject. “So you're on your way to retrieve your sister and her family in Dallas on horseback?”

Her use of the word
retrieve
implies that she isn't some poor dirt farmer. “Yeah, it's the only way I could think of. I drove to Sherman and left from there, hopefully leaving me enough gas to get back home. There are dead cars scattered all over the roadways. Dallas will be impassable.”