Tim Washburn - Powerless

“No, ma’am. I’m kinda partial to curly.”

“That’s good.” Summer steps through the door and the screen slaps shut behind her.

A short while later Zeke removes the turkeys from the fire and carries them into the house. Summer and Ruth had set the table with real plates and real cutlery. He slides the turkeys off their spikes and onto a platter. As he carries the platter to the table he tries hard not to stare at Summer, who is dressed in a red, sleeveless dress that hits about midthigh. Ruth is wearing a similar dress, but in navy blue.

Zeke places the turkeys in the center of the table. “I’m sorry, ladies, for not packing a tie. I must say, it’s nice to have two beautiful women at the table.”

Noah makes a gagging sound and everyone laughs. Summer leans across the table to light the candles and Zeke steals a glimpse of her well-toned thighs only to get caught by his sister. She wags her finger and smiles.

Darkness descends on the plains as the wicks flicker to life, creating a homey scene, complete with shadows dancing along the far wall. Ruth does the honors of carving up the turkeys and she fills everyone’s plate, including Carl’s. He feeds small pieces of the turkey into his closed mouth, savoring every small, succulent piece. He can’t chew but he does move it around in his mouth with his tongue. Emma and Noah dig into the tender breast meat and eat until they can eat no more. Ruth and Summer eat more slowly, savoring every bite. Zeke tries to eat slowly, but his fork is in constant motion between his mouth and the plate.

When everyone has eaten their fill, Zeke strips the remaining meat from the bones and grabs a wire rack to put over the fire. He arranges the turkey meat on the rack so that the fire can evaporate the moisture. Back inside, he places the carcasses into a large pot, empties his canteen over them, and puts the pot on the fire to simmer all night. A broth for Carl’s breakfast, with enough to last the rest of the trip.

Ruth clears the table and the kids carry the dishes outside to the wash bucket by the picnic table.

“Leave ’em, kids. We’ll wash them up in the morning,” Zeke says.

He follows them back into the house, and Summer carries the candles into the living room, where they all collapse into the chairs around the fireplace. The weather has been unseasonably warm, but a chill arrived with the dark. Zeke mounds up some kindling and puts a match to it.

Emma crawls into Ruth’s lap and within minutes she’s fast asleep. Noah makes it just a bit longer. Ruth and Zeke carry them back to the spare bedroom and tuck them in.

Not much later, Ruth and Carl make their exit, picking the second bedroom next to the children. That leaves one bedroom for two people who don’t know each other very well.

“I’ll take the couch,” Zeke says, sliding over to it. Summer surprises him when she stands from her chair and lies down beside him, propping her head on his chest.

“How are you holding up?” Zeke whispers.

“I miss Aubrey every minute of every day. But I know she’s okay with my father and sister.” She sniffles and swipes away a lone tear. “I couldn’t have chosen two better people to look after my little girl.”

Zeke wraps his arm around her. “This can’t last forever. I’m sure there are people all over the world experiencing the same thing—a loved one far from home. They’ll come home just as soon as they can.”

“I know… I know. I’ve told myself the exact thing a thousand times. But that doesn’t make the situation any easier.”

He wraps one of her hair curls around his finger. “I know it doesn’t. I wish that we would all wake up in the morning with the power back on and everything functioning like it has for every other day of our lives.” Zeke spiders his fingers through her hair. “Aubrey will come home.”

They lie side by side, staring at the fire. After a few moments, Summer stands and reaches for his hand. No words are spoken and no questions are asked as she leads him into her bedroom.

The Peterson home

Zeke bolts up in bed. Summer reaches her arm out to comfort him. But it isn’t a nightmare that wakes him this time.

“I heard something,” Zeke whispers. For a moment he’s disoriented in his new surroundings.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Summer whispers back.

The windows are cracked open and a chill has invaded the space. He slides from beneath the covers and pads toward the window. Months in Afghanistan had trained him to be aware of abnormal noises in the night. He slips on his jeans and shirt. In the darkness he fumbles for the hard polymer handgrip of the Glock. Not wanting to risk a flashlight, he searches the floor with his hands. In their haste to remove clothing, Zeke, usually a stickler for proper handling of weapons, can’t recall where he placed the gun.

“Where did I put my pistol?” he whispers to Summer.

“Check the nightstand.”

One of the horses trumpets a nervous whinny.

“Somebody’s after the horses,” Zeke says in an urgent whisper. He yanks the nightstand drawer from off its tracks and the heavy gun clumps to the hardwood floor. He snaps up the pistol and tucks it into his waistband. In two quick strides he’s digging through his jacket for the extra magazine and a tactical flashlight that mounts to the bottom rail of the gun.

Summer jumps naked from bed and quickly dresses. “I’ll cover you with the rifle.”

“Fine, but do it from the house. I don’t know how many there are or what the hell they’re up to.”

Zeke gently raises the window to the stops. Afraid the front and back doors are being watched, he slides through the window and drops to his feet. He creeps toward the front of the house and peeks around the corner, but his visual range is limited to about ten feet. His senses, not as razor sharp as they had once been, but still sharp enough, suggest no one is present. There are none of the telltale signs: no rustle of fabric or the impatient shuffling of feet. The gate hinges to the barn squeal in the night. Zeke ducks low and races to the opposite corner toward the back of the house.

In the anemic wash of the moon, he makes out the silhouette of the three horses being led through the gate by two people. The darkness prevents him from guessing their ages, their sex, and even their size—just two forms leading away his horses.

His body surges with anger as he takes the Glock from his waist and seats the flashlight. He stands to his full six foot three and steps around the corner.

He makes it to within ten yards of the horse thieves before they notice that a gun barrel is tracking their escape. Zeke triggers the powerful flashlight and points it directly at their faces. The two men are in their early twenties and, from their appearance, they hadn’t bothered to bathe or shave even when the power was on. Both are big and broad, nearly as tall as Zeke, and each is carrying about forty pounds of extra weight. The one on the left has a shotgun riding on his shoulder. Zeke pans the flashlight down and discovers guns tucked into the waistbands of their ragged jeans.

Zeke stalks closer, the Glock held at shoulder height and locked in a two-hand grip. “Let the leads hit the ground and step away from the horses.”

The one holding the ropes releases them from his grasp, but neither makes a move to step away. Zeke wants to shoot them where they stand, but the safety of the horses is paramount. With his pistol never wavering, he steps over and gathers up the ropes. With a cluck of his tongue, he leads Murphy and the mares away from the men. There’s not much he can do with the horses one-handed, but he quickly wraps the ropes around a fence post.