SURVIVING ABE: A Climate-Fiction Novel (4 page)

He spent
much of what remained of the afternoon setting up a comfortable camp in the brisk mountain air at the camp’s altitude of 8500 feet.  The 3500 feet of additional altitude from where he lived in Grand Junction made the air noticeably thinner, requiring more breaths to get the same amount of oxygen.  When a cloud’s passing shadow caused a distinct drop in temperature he reminded himself to keep a coat close at hand for when the sun went behind a cloud or a mountain, he looked forward to needing a campfire's warmth this evening.  Fall camping at its best.

Not
far from where the main tent had been set up was his next project, the stand of aspen that marked the edge of the seep that Oley found.  Gus got a folding e-tool shovel and cleaned out a spot near the uphill end of the wet area and watched as clear water filled in.  The hole he had dug, about a foot or so deep, in a two-foot circle, created a pool with a current that slowly washed the muddy water out.  Soon a clear pool of spring water over a gravel-and-sand bottom would provide a clean water source only fifty yards from camp.  And almost as valuable, it did double duty as a cooler for at least a six-pack at a time.  In his opinion, a campfire and a cold beer to celebrate the day’s hunt topped the list of morale boosters.

Gathering enough firewood
for the first couple of nights, building a fire pit, hoisting provisions fifteen feet, or so, up in the tree branches for bear proofing, and organizing the equipment they had offloaded from the pack horses and piled in front of the main tent took up most of the remaining daylight.  Included in the gear was a lightweight one-man tent, so he would have the option of staying away from base camp for a night or two during the heat of a hunt, though he hoped it wouldn't be needed.

While there was still enough light to shoot he
retrieved a now well-chilled beer from the camp’s new cooler, his recurve bow, and an arrow with a rubber blunt-tip on it.  Next he hung a pup tent-sized tarp over some brush, for a target and a method of stopping the arrow.  After about twenty shots from varying distances and angles he felt ready for the shot if he could work in on a bull or, even better, if he could call a bull into range by blowing bugles or cow calls.

The appetite he'd worked up during the afternoon's activity motivated him to start preparing food
for supper.  While the meal heated in a Dutch oven, halfway buried in hot coals, he pulled the quadrangle topographical map out of his daypack and started matching the contours on the paper with the landmarks still visible in the fading light.  He did this to orient himself since he intended to leave camp before daylight on the first day of hunting.

A meal of reheated, mediocre stew he had pre-cooked before leaving home tasted delicious as he ate it beside the campfire.  Being outdoors seemed to always make his cooking more flavorful for some reason.  With a full stomach, and considering his location on the map, the next day’s hunt began taking shape.
That point above camp, on the map anyway, looked like it would offer a vantage point where he could glass a large area of prime elk habitat far enough from the ATV trails.  Gus hoped that any noise made by road-hunting ATVers would move the elk in his direction.

Just as he
got ready to crawl into the tent a distant elk bugle-sounded and Gus froze.  A few seconds later an answer to the challenge came, this one closer than the first bugle.  The hair on the back of his neck stood up; followed by a chill trickling down his spine.  Once in the tent he positioned his cot with care, so he could see the star-filled sky out the tent entrance while being serenaded by the passionate lyrics of elk in rut.

An hour later he
still lay there, lost in the sights and sounds of an ancient world, while shedding stresses caused by a modern one.

Autumn treated Grand Junction well.  As the high-country aspen lost their glory to the gusty winds of late September, the valley cottonwoods began turning rich yellows, and brilliantly festooned the streets of the city, holding off the drabness of approaching winter.

After eating a light lunch they took advantage of the warm afternoon to stroll a few blocks of Grand Junction's downtown area, to enjoy window-shopping at the boutiques and stores that made up the shopping district.  Main Street with its corner artwork and park-like settings made getting some exercise after a meal inviting.  Ela and Con leisurely walked the pleasant street and enjoyed catching up on the minutia of each other's lives.

"Okay
, ready to see what I’ve done with the place in your absence?" Con asked as they got in the car.  "Try to see it as your inheritance invested wisely."

"
What?  Are you renting out my room to some college kid?"

"That’s an idea.
  You wouldn’t mind, huh?"

"
You think I should just stand by and let you influence another young life?" Ela asked in mock seriousness.  "Anyway, what’s going on at home?"

"F
ertilization, cultivation, and preparation."

"P
reparation sounds promising, but fertilization and cultivation I’m sure I don’t want to hear about.  And I don’t want any snot-nosed baby brother or sister.  What have you done this time, Mom?"

"No worries there.
  You fulfilled any and all wishes of motherhood for me, and then some.  Of course, I am anxiously awaiting my first grandbaby.  Do you think you will get married first?" Con asked sweetly.

"
Oh, so now you’re a proponent of single-motherhood?  That's not the way I remember my own single-mom during my formative years."

"With age comes wisdom.
  It hardly makes up for the things you lose though . . . " Con let that one fade as she made the final turn toward home.

As the home Ela
grew up in came into view she was amazed at the transformation. "Wow, did you transplant a forest?"

"
Those, my dear, are skyrocketing juniper trees. They are planted just inside the chain-link fence all the way around the backyard, about three feet apart.  They are growing about two feet per year and will reach fifteen feet high, I hope.  The backyard now feels very private and well protected," Con stated with obvious pride.

Ela
replied, "So that’s where you practice fertilization and cultivation?"

"
Yes, peace on earth, spelled differently than what you were trying to imply.  It has become my sanctuary, my island away from the craziness of the world," Con said.

The garage door came up and Con pulled in with practiced ease.
  Ela busily checked both sides of the garage, "What’s with all these built-in cabinets with doors?  You didn’t have any of this last time."

"How many times have I invited
you to come out for a visit? You think I should enter some sort of cryogenic chamber when you leave and freeze myself, so absolutely no changes will occur around here between your visits?  You’ve got a dynamic woman for a mother, you Lucky Girl.

These cabinets store the food from the garden.  Some of it is dehydrated, some canned, but all of it is deliciously organic.  In the pantry I also have a reserve of store-bought food and other items I go through regularly.  It gives this old woman living by herself comfort to have a food cushion, just in case."

"So this is the preparation that you spoke about," Ela said.

They entered the two
-bedroom, two-bath rancher on about half an acre located just out of town.  The south side of the house faced the backyard through double French doors. The now enclosed yard, with a solid seven or eight-foot tall natural fence, made a peaceful view. The sandstone patio was comfortably furnished with padded, wrought iron lawn chairs and a matching table.  A redwood pergola covered with climbing vines shaded the patio's sitting area.

"
Again, wow Mom, very nice. You
have
spent my inheritance . . . but I like it, I really do."  Then her gaze reached the backyard.  "Where’s the yard, Mom?  What’s all that stuff?"

"
Fertilization and cultivation, in progress.  Come on!"

Ela
followed her mother into what had once been her domain as a kid, but now looked more like Farmville.  As she did she found she could barely keep up with her
disabled
mother.

"
I can remember you trying to sprout avocado seeds with toothpicks a couple of times.  Oh, and then there was the time we were going to get rich growing pot," Ela said, tossing "the look" back to her mom.  "But I’m just not pulling up any farming tendencies exhibited by you in all the years we’ve hung around each other.  What brought you out of the closet and into the garden now?"

"Plants are much easier—
and quieter—than raising kids.  You’re proof enough of that," she said with a big smile and a wink. "Now, instead of yelling at you to not run with the scissors, I carry them out here and snip off any leaves that think they can shade out the competition.  I rule my fiefdom with implements of mass veganism."

"That is not a word.  Are you telling
me you’re a vegetarian now, all of a sudden?"

"
No, but I’m practicing to be one when meat becomes too expensive.  Besides, it keeps me regular eating like a rabbit."

"
Mom
!" Ela said in the same way she said "yuck". "Is it true that all you old fogeys talk with each other about are your bowel movements?"

"No, but lack thereof gets quite a bit of discussion.

"MOM!"

Ela
knew her mom just loved to banter and fiendishly set out little traps for the unwary to fall into.  Her mother also knew how to make you want to end a discussion when it was going into an area she wanted to avoid.

The covered patio offered comfortable places to relax, so Con got them each a glass of iced tea, and they soaked in the view and the w
armth of the late fall sun.  Ela pulled out her smart phone and started checking for news about tomorrow’s scheduled meeting in Gateway.

T
he appointment for tomorrow was set for 10
A.M.,
so they would need to leave about an hour earlier. Ela had confidence her mom would be able to entertain herself for an hour, maybe by looking for sunlight striking the canyon walls in just the right way for a picture or two; she had always loved photography.  Then they could rejoin and have lunch.

Evening came, and
with it a bit of jet lag for Ela, and she opted to go to bed early in her old room, "Hey, Mom."

No answer
.

"Hey, Mom!"

"Yes dear, you don’t have to shout."

"Really?  Might be some discussion needed on that subject."

"Now, Ela Nor, be nice to your old, disabled mother."

Using her first and middle names together meant her mother was
serious, no matter how sweetly she uttered it.  She went to her mom and gave her a hug.  "My day has been two hours longer than yours.  Waiting in airports and flying has worn me out, so I’m going to bed.  It's so good to be home with you."

"Good night, Ela
," she said watching her daughter walk to her old room.

"G’night, Mom," came Ela
’s voice so mumbled that all Con heard was the last word.

"
What’s in a name?" Con mused.  "Everything coming from the right lips," she answered herself, thinking she had the best name of all. Mom.

Message 1:
To the following recipients: Ethos@uscybercom, Duenna@noaa, Reeve@nsa

Activation Warning

Time: 72 hours

Place:
United States

Event: 
An extreme winter storm

The initial phase will be a multipronged cyber attack.  A weaponized virus currently in place, but inactive, will be enabled.  Communications and electrical grid control systems will begin to deteriorate.

The power going off will be the universal call to action for physical attacks against any infrastructure with the intent of prolonging outages, denying relief efforts, and inciting riots.

S/V Robin barely swung on her slack anchor rode and made no movement other than an occasional, almost imperceptible, roll when a passing boater’s wake nudged the hull.  With only an intermittent, slight breeze this had
been the hottest day of Tess’s life, and tomorrow was supposed to top today's record.

Tess spent most of the sweltering afternoon in and out of the water on the shady side of the boat.  When not doing that she poured chilled water or juice down her throat, trying to stay hydrated.  Her appetite went to zilch for anything that wasn't cold and wet, which concerned her as the cruising lifestyle depended on having ample energy.

Aware of the statistic that each year, on average, more Americans died from hyperthermia than from tornados, hurricanes, floods, and earthquakes combined concerned her; she knew the conditions she was experiencing were causing fatalities in the cities around her.  Staying hydrated was essential, especially with high humidity levels factoring into the heat index, and no air conditioning aboard.  She hoped that her fluid intake was enough to offset the copious amount of sweat her body was futilely producing and then dripping off, without evaporating and cooling her.

Along with enduring the peak heat and humidity in the late afternoon, air quality had gotten so bad
conditions aboard appeared unworldly for a time.  Robin floated in a one-dimensional world of gray.  Nothing but haze, no shape, nor variation of color, could be seen past the lifelines.  The sky and the surface of the river visually merged, taking on the same dismal hue of the polluted air.  Though she could hear the sounds of overhead jetliners and reverberating motorboats, her inability to see them through the surrounding grayness heightened the sense of isolation that came over her.  Keeping her morale up seemed harder by the hour.

Reality has a way of cutting-in and interrupting the pleasure of lazy musings, bringing a chill along with the sudden awareness of danger, like a cliff-edge appearing out of the fog.
Due to miscalculating her water consumption during the heat wave, replenishing Robin’s 72-gallon fresh-water tank hit the number-one spot on Tess's priority list after noticing how her usage had gone up sharply.  Only a couple of day's worth of drinking water remained aboard, and she needed one of those days to get to a source of potable water.

Tess's idea of sailing to
Chestertown the next morning was confirmed when she learned there was a reasonable chance of 8-10 knots of SE wind filling in midmorning. That amount of wind would be just enough for Robin, a light-air sailboat, to ghost along at a couple of knots.  Tess much preferred sailing rather than motoring anytime, but especially in hot weather; using the inboard diesel engine would add heat to the already stifling cabin temperatures.

Before the boat could be moved
Tess needed to take down the awnings and wind scoops, which she decided do after the sun set in the evening.  For now she returned to her current project, gathering weather information for tomorrow's weather synopsis, and rereading her predictions, from this morning's report:

Today’s Weather:

For the East Coast and the eastern third of the U.S. today will be a repeat of yesterday, though likely hotter with air quality declining.  Intermittent rain is possible late in the day for the Gulf Coast States.

Frigid air, after an extended stay over the polar region, poured overnight into the Polar Jet Stream’s downward kink that now sags over the western U.S.  Southern Idaho residents got a chilly surprise with low temperatures hovering around 0ºF this morning.

Forecasts:

Forecasters are anticipating the frigid air invasion to eventually resemble a large "V."  With the western leg over Washington State, the other leg will move eastward as the "V" deepens, passing over the Great Lakes in the next few days.

The bottom of the "V" will extend to the Four Corners region in the next 24 to 48 hours, then the arctic air mass will slowly move eastward as the blocking, high-pressure ridge moves to the south.

The East Coast heat wave will linger another two days, then there’s a high percentage chance of rain for the following three days.  Flooding likely.  Freezing or near freezing temps will follow, arriving next week.

Named today by The Weather Channel, Winter Storm Abe is now over northern Arizona, where afternoon and evening weather model-runs forecast the storm system to remain stalled for the next 36 hours or longer.  Rain will start later today in the Four Corners area, turning to snow by tomorrow morning first at higher elevations.  Snow levels will descend during the day to include lower valleys overnight.

Some meteorologists are seeing the atmosphere set up to deliver a winter storm with the potential to rival conditions recorded in both the 1993 Storm of the Century and the extreme cold front of 11-11-1911.

During that 1911 frontal passage it was recorded that in Chicago a railroad worker died of heat prostration in the morning before the front arrived.  That afternoon, a few hours after the cold front passed, a man fell and froze to death before friends found him that evening.  The 1911 front known as a fast, hard-hitting, short-duration event, advanced at nearly 40 mph, catching much of the population unprepared.

Abe is
different, this system is slow moving and will be more challenging, even for people who have prepared, because of the length of time it will take to pass.  Precipitation events will be long-duration with a high risk of local flooding.  When the cold front approaches and passes ice and snow will develop.

In 2013 Winter Storm Atlas killed thousands of cattle in the Dakotas when days of rain were followed by a blizzard that left four feet of snow in places.  Atlas was a relatively fast moving
system compared to Abe.  Abe's punch will be stronger, aimed further south over greater human population densities, and of longer duration.

Fair Winds from S/V Robin

Tess felt satisfied with the accuracy of her forecast, but also felt a sense of foreboding about the forecast itself.  Current atmospheric data supported her earlier conclusion that the exaggerated loops of the Polar Jet Stream would remain stationary with no indication of moving in the next 48 hours.  The worst possible scenario was setting up for western regions; Abe would strengthen and move slowly, if at all—a deadly combination.  Record snowfall, freezing temperatures, and widespread power outages that could last weeks after the storm were uniting to contribute to a large death toll.

~~~

One hour after sundown, and two dives overboard later, Tess had removed and stowed all the awnings and wind scoops.  She had a new lightweight geniker sail hoisted on its own furler, with lightweight sheets tied on, and then led back to the primary winches in the cockpit.  Robin now sported a sail designed for tomorrow's light winds, raising the anchor was the only task left before leaving.  S/V Robin stood ready to sail on the coming day's first breath of air.