William Weber - Zero Day

Nate shook his head. “This area isn’t safe. There’s been a meltdown at the plant, which is why we’re trying to get out of town.”

The farmer’s face scrunched up. “The plant?”

“Yeah. Listen, when did you start feeling this way?” Nate asked.

“I’m perfectly fine,” the man countered. “The lights been out a couple days. You get dumped on with this much snow, that sort of thing is bound to happen. ’Sides, I haven’t heard nothing about any problems at the power plant.”

“The whole town’s been evacuated,” Dakota said, the edges of her mouth drawn down in fear. “Anyone who stays behind is going to die.”

“Harold,” a woman’s voice called from outside. “Is everything okay?”

“Gertie, you stay where you are. I’ve got the situation…” The farmer’s words suddenly trailed off. His body was swaying like a tall reed in a brisk wind. One stray hand reached out to stabilize him and failed to grasp anything useful. He let out a sigh and crumpled to his knees. Nate rushed to catch him.

“Oh, Harold,” his wife said, stumbling in boots a few sizes too big for her. “What have you done to him?”

“Nothing, ma’am,” Nate said, trying to keep the man upright. Harold’s eyes were fluttering. “He fainted. We need to get him back inside.”

Nate shouldered Harold’s shotgun while Dakota moved in next to him and grabbed Harold’s free elbow. Together, they got the old man on his feet and headed back to the house. Gertie walked ahead of them, turning around every few seconds, a terrified look on her pallid features. “Please don’t hurt him,” she kept saying.

Nate had no intention of doing anything of the sort, in spite of nearly getting shot for the second time in the past twenty-four hours.

With great effort, they reached the farmhouse. Gertie held open the door. “Set him on the couch while I make a fire,” she told them.

The interior looked like something out of a Rockwell painting—old chairs and sofas next to round tables draped in lace dotted with family photos and antique lamps. If nothing else, the place was cozy.

They carefully deposited Harold onto the sofa, setting a pillow beneath his head. Nate wiped a thick layer of sweat from his own brow.

Dakota noticed this. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’re not dressed right for winter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your skin can’t breathe,” she told him. “I know a thing or two about dealing with cold weather and you’re doing it all wrong.”

Nate felt something stinging and he suspected it was his pride. “I’m wearing a t-shirt, sweater and winter jacket,” he said, as if to prove his point.

“Exactly. You’re dressed fine for someone going on a sleigh ride or something.” That last part made her giggle. “Layering’s the key. I’ll bet every time you find yourself walking outside, a big old bucket of sweat goes rolling down your back.”

Nate’s eyes fell. “Not a bucket.”

That also made her smile. “Okay, how about a pint glass then?”

“Fair enough.”

“You start with breathable fabrics, like polyester. Long sleeves. Add another layer for warmth if needed. Then there’s your jacket. It doesn’t need to be heavy-duty. Light and windproof are far more important.”

Nate smirked. “I thought I was the prepper here. How do you know all this stuff?”

Dakota batted her eyelashes. “A girl never tells.”

Harold made a noise and it drew their attention.

“I told him not to go out there,” Gertie said, sighing, as she brought the flame from a lighter to handfuls of crumpled paper in the fireplace. “Sometimes he can be as stubborn as a lop-eared mule.”

Both Nate and Dakota cracked a smile at that.

“He’s just like his son, I tell you,” she went on, fanning the flames with the sports section. “Harold Junior. Goes by Harry. He’s in real estate in Chicago. A real hotshot, too.” Her voice suddenly took on the mournful quality of a bereft mother. “He and Harold had words some time ago and we haven’t heard from him since.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nate said, meaning every word of it. He knew something about loss. “How long ago was that?” He was trying hard not to sound like he was interrogating a witness, a carryover from his days as a PI.

Gertie stopped fanning and starred up at the ceiling. “Oh, four, maybe five years. It’s been a while.”

“Didn’t you say your mother worked in real estate in Chicago?” Nate asked Dakota on the off chance the two might have known each other.

The girl looked suddenly very uncomfortable. “Well, she did, a bit.”

A deep line formed across Nate’s forehead. “A bit? I thought you said she was one of the top agents in the city?”

Gertie perked up. “Then maybe she knew my son.”

“I doubt it,” Dakota said, sounding firm and maybe even a little dismissive. “Besides, I haven’t a clue who she may or may not have known.”

“What sort of real estate did she sell?” Gertie asked, turning just enough to lock eyes with the girl.

Dakota shrugged. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I said she was in real estate. All I know is that she sometimes showed people apartments.”

There was a natural tendency in teenagers to inflate and exaggerate the exploits and wealth of their parents. That social pressure on young people might have always existed, but was particularly potent in today’s day and age. With the internet, your competition wasn’t only the kids on your block or at school. You were held up next to kids from around the world. It was hardly a surprise that under such circumstances the truth tended to get lost between layers of necessary fabrication, a survival tactic designed to ward off insignificance and loneliness.

Harold coughed, bringing only the slightest touch of color into his cheeks.

“Your husband’s very sick,” Nate said bluntly. The time for delicacy was long gone. He removed the Geiger from his pocket and switched it on. It crackled to life, stronger now than it had been at the school. “I believe he may have radiation poisoning.”

She stopped. “Radiation? But from what?”

Nate explained the situation in as much detail as the circumstances would allow. “We don’t mean you any harm. I hope you can see that now. We thought no one was home and were going to use your horses to get to Rockford.”

“Our horses?” The flesh around Gertie’s chin was loose and jiggled whenever she spoke.

“There’s too much snow,” Dakota explained. “I mean, look at your own cars, they’re buried. You’d need a tank to make it through.”

“That’s assuming the highway itself isn’t clogged with abandoned vehicles.”

Gertie studied Dakota’s face, then Nate’s. “I’m sorry to be so rude, but you and your daughter look nothing alike.”

Dakota blushed. “He’s not my dad, just a…”

“Guy who was in the right place at the right time,” Nate said, letting her off the hook.

Harold moaned, his eyes fluttering. “Let’s get him some water,” Nate suggested.

Gertie agreed and headed into the kitchen.

Dakota whispered to Nate, “Do you think this guy has a tractor?”

“He might. Why?”

“Well, wouldn’t it make more sense to ride that thing to Rockford, rather than a pair of horses?”

Nate thought it over for a second, his eyes bright and contemplative. “It would have an easier time handling the snow. We’d also be just as exposed as we would on horseback. Then there’s the highway. A single pileup could be enough to block us.”

Dakota’s mood soured with Nate’s dire prediction.

Their options were few to begin with and seemed to be dwindling by the minute. Harold’s eyes came open slowly and he pushed himself upright. “What are you doing in my house?” he bellowed.