Tim Washburn - Powerless

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.”

She pauses for a moment and laces her fingers together. “Does your sister have children?”

“Yes, two. Emma, who’s five, and Noah, who just turned seven.”

“I think they’ll be excited to see their uncle.”

Zeke wants to press her with questions but holds back, hoping that she’ll answer them without being asked.

“I have one girl, Aubrey, who’s eleven.”

He finishes everything on the plate and sets it aside. “I love that name.” He wants desperately to ask where Aubrey is now or where Aubrey’s father is, but he doesn’t want to spook her.

“Thank you,” she says as her eyes moisten. She leans her head forward and pinches the bridge of her nose. After a moment of silence she continues. “My father took her out to see my sister in California, just before whatever happened. I wanted them to spend some time together, bonding time, so I volunteered to stay and watch the farm while they went.” A sob escapes, and her eyes are wet with tears. “Now, I don’t know how they’ll ever get back home.”

“This can’t last forever,” he says softly, wishing he could wrap her in his arms.

“My husband and I are going through an ugly divorce, or were, before everything happened. I thought the trip would be good for her. I took her out of school for two weeks so that she could travel with my father…” Her sentence trails off with another sob.

“Where do you live?”

“Southlake, just west of Grapevine. What about your sister and her family?”

“They live in the University Park area.”

She smiles as she wipes away the last of the tears. “I love that area with all the older, graceful homes.”

“Yeah, it’s a pretty area, but there’s just too damn many people for me.”

“Not a people person?” She pulls on a curl of red hair and wraps it around her index finger.

“Depends on the people.” Zeke repositions his body to relieve the pressure on his backside. “You must be pretty handy with that rifle you were pointing at me earlier.”

She blushes. “Just taking precautions. I grew up hunting with my father, so, yeah, I’m pretty good with it. Of course the deer around here are fed by most of the neighbors, so it wasn’t like I had to go stalking after it. I felt bad shooting it, but the pantry is completely empty. I have most of the meat drying over the fire now. At least I’ll have deer jerky for a while.” The tears have stopped but an underlying sadness remains.

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Zeke says, “but are you here by yourself?”

She hesitates before answering, and he thinks he might have overstepped. “Yes.”

“Do you need anything or need me to do anything before I leave in the morning? I can chop firewood or maybe hunt for more game before taking off.”

“Thank you for offering.” The relief is evident in her eyes. “But I think I’m okay for now.”

She stands and picks up the plate. “Thanks for talking with me. I didn’t know whether my voice still worked, it’s been so long since I’ve talked to another human. Make yourself at home.” She walks toward the door and flicks on the flashlight.

“Thank you. But you never told me your name.”

She turns to face Zeke. “I didn’t? It’s Summer. Summer Peterson. I was born on June twenty-first, the first day of summer.”

“Summer, I’m Zeke. Zeke Marshall. A pleasure to meet you.”

“See you in the morning, Zeke.” She steps through the doorway and pulls the door closed behind her. She’s gone, but the memory of her lingers most of the night as he tosses and turns, searching for a comfortable position on the hard dirt floor.

The home of Dr. Samuel Blake, Boulder, Colorado

Sam and Kaylee spent most of the day by the roaring fire in the living room of his modest home. The sleet turned to snow, and about eight inches is piled in the yard, deeper against the French doors to the back deck. A fairly large puddle of water rests on the tile beneath the clothes drying on the hearth. Sam has changed into a pair of old jeans and a sweater and offered clothing to Kaylee. She refused and remains naked and comfortable under the blanket.

“I have some canned soup that we can heat up on the fire,” Sam says.

“That sounds yummy.”

Sam stands and makes his way into the kitchen. Night is almost upon them, so he digs through the drawers in search of candles. The fire provides enough light for the living room, but the kitchen is in near darkness. He paws through one drawer after another and finally stumbles upon his cache of candles in the bottom drawer. He lights one and grabs a plate, letting the melting wax coat the bottom so that the candle will stand upright. He does this two more times until the kitchen is awash in a flickering yellow light.

He carries one of the candles into the pantry. “I have tomato, chicken noodle, and some French onion,” he shouts over his shoulder.

“Chicken noodle,” Kaylee says. Sam would prefer the tomato, but goes with the chicken noodle. He opens the cans with a hand-operated opener and dumps two cans of soup into a heavy pan. Without thinking, he opens the refrigerator door in search of heavy cream and is bowled over by the smell of rotten food. He quickly slams the door shut before the odor can permeate the whole downstairs area. “Damn,” he mutters, trying to restrain his gagging.