Peter Hernon - 8.4

The theory here, never proven but much debated, was that solar flares and sunspots unleashed powerful solar winds, thereby increasing the number of charged particles streaming from the sun. The solar winds could cause turbulence in the earth’s atmosphere, turbulence that could affect the planet’s rotation. These slight variations in rotation, so the theory went, could trigger earthquakes.

Prable was visibly weakening. He’d slumped lower in his chair and was having difficulty breathing. He looked into the camera and smiled again. It was taking more effort. The pain showed in the tightness at the corners of his mouth.

“I had my last chemo yesterday,” he said. “I stopped it. Total waste of time. It knocks the hell out of me.”

Prable took a sip of water. “Elizabeth. Please understand that I haven’t limited my analysis solely to solar activity and geological stresses. I’ve also factored in some other data, which I’m more familiar with—weather assessments and river stages. The New Madrid Seismic Zone cuts straight across the Mississippi River, which drains the entire upper Midwest. That region has sustained almost nine straight months of near-record rainfall. The Mississippi and Ohio rivers have hovered at or near flood stage for five months out of the last eleven. It’s likely that more water, in the form of melted snow, will come downstream in the next month or so. All that water will increase the stress on the fault, making it more vulnerable to fracture.

“I’ll make the rest of this brief. I can’t talk much longer. I want you to check my data. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake, miscalculated somewhere. I don’t believe so, and I’m not afraid to tell you that even though I’m dying, it frightens the living shit out of me. If a large quake hit on the New Madrid Seismic Zone with anywhere near the magnitude of those in the early nineteenth century, it would be a disaster, a national calamity. In my opinion worse, by far, than the Civil War.”

Prable waved his hand at the camera, a feeble gesture. “You’ll have to do what you think best with all of this, Elizabeth. I wish I were there to help. If there’s anything to what my wife the Roman Catholic has been telling me these last few months, maybe I will be able to help you. In spirit as they say.”

Prable smiled, a warm, open smile that radiated from his gaunt face.

“I’ve changed my will. You are now one of my favored beneficiaries. My net worth may come as a surprise. You’ll soon be a wealthy woman, Elizabeth. Consider it partial payment for what I’ve done to you.”

The tape went blank. Elizabeth sat there unable to move, transfixed by what she’d just seen. She closed her eyes and could still see his face.

ATKINS SAT IN THE FRONT SEAT OF BEN HARVEY’S pickup, watching the cattle. They’d driven to one of his far pastures. Sheriff Hessel had left to get back to his office in Mayfield. He was worried about the weather icing up the roads.

The behavior of some of the animals was bizarre. Cows normally moved slowly as they grazed. Atkins watched as the animals—individually or sometimes three and four at a time—suddenly lifted their heads up from the feed trough and trotted stiffly in wide circles.

Harvey couldn’t explain it. Or hide his concern.

“They’ve been doing that on and off for a week,” he said. “I haven’t got an explanation. Neither does the vet.”

“Have you felt any tremors lately?”

Harvey smiled. “We get three or four little shakes a year around here. You get used to that pretty quick you live in this country. Five, six years ago there was a good jolt. Maybe a 5 on that Richter scale. It didn’t do any damage to speak of except maybe snap a few sewer lines and some gas pipes. And, friend, it never made my cattle go nuts.”

Harvey invited Atkins for dinner and drove back to the farmhouse. Atkins was eager to leave but Harvey and his wife, Barbara, insisted that he stay. The pot roast was already in the oven. The delicious aroma of meat, onions, and simmering gravy filled the kitchen.

Barbara drew a glass of water from the tap.

“Smell that,” Harvey said, handing the glass to Atkins.

The odor of sulfur was unmistakable. The water was slightly clouded.

“Three days ago that water was clear and sweet,” Harvey said.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Harvey said, looking out the window. “It’s finally starting.”

The wind came in gusts, and Atkins heard the sleet hitting the glass like handfuls of pebbles.

“You better spend the night, Mister Atkins,” Ben Harvey said. “This keeps up, the road’s gonna be solid ice. It’s really coming down.”

Atkins didn’t want to put them out. Even more to the point, he wanted to get back to Memphis as soon as possible and start going over Walt Jacobs’ data on the New Madrid Seismic Zone.

“Now that the boys are grown and living on their own farms, we’ve got four empty bedrooms upstairs,” Harvey said. “You’re welcome to one of them. I wouldn’t go out in that.”

Although he was eager to leave, Atkins accepted the offer with gratitude. He enjoyed a huge meal, and afterward Ben Harvey got out a bottle of Old Granddad and poured each of them a jigger. They sat by the fire in the farmhouse’s spacious living room. When they turned in, it was still sleeting.

A little after midnight a telephone awakened Atkins. Moments later, Ben Harvey knocked on the bedroom door.

“What is it?” Atkins asked, struggling to clear his head. He’d been in a deep sleep.

“Poachers,” Harvey said.

The caller was a hired hand who worked for him. He and his wife lived in a trailer on the far side of the farm. He was getting ready to turn in for the night and had looked outside to check if it was still sleeting. He’d seen some lights in the hills.

“I told him to call the sheriff,” Harvey said. “I’ll head on out there and take a look myself. There’s a lot of deer that winter in those hills. The poachers come after them at night with four-by-fours. The bastards use spotlights. You catch a deer in the light, it won’t move, and you can pick it off easy. We had a hell of a problem with poachers a few years back. We finally ran them off. At least I thought we had. It looks like they’re back in business.”

Harvey put on his raincoat and boots and got a rifle out of a gun case in the family room. He asked Atkins if he wanted to go with him.

“I wouldn’t mind the company if you’re up to it. You gotta sit out there in the dark and hope they come your way. It can get kinda boring.”

Left unsaid was what they’d do if someone did come their way.

They walked out to the truck and headed down one of the dirt roads that crisscrossed the farm. The sleet had stopped. They had to drive a few miles, the wheels crunching through thick sheets of ice.

Looming ahead, Atkins saw the low hills, snake-backed and dark.

They were still a mile away when a flash of bluish-white light lit up one of the hillsides.

Harvey stopped and said, “That’s no lantern.”

The light alternated from a pale, luminescent blue to reddish-orange. It flashed, then flashed again, lingering for a few seconds with a strong afterglow. The band of light appeared to hover directly over the ridgeline.

“Are there any power lines or buried cables running across those hills?” Atkins asked.

“Not that I know of,” Harvey said. He let out a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”

The hillside had gone dark then the lights burst out again, brighter than ever. They seemed to rise from the ground and settle over the tops of the trees, a color spectrum of white, various shades of blue and orange that radiated in waves.