Deep Shadows (47 page)

The words died on his lips as Max slumped against the door and his mother grabbed the wheel. She pushed his foot out of the way and slowly, gently applied the brakes with her left foot. It wasn't until they came to a stop that Carter thought to look up and out of the front windshield.

They'd risen at the crack of dawn and travelled through barricades and a deserted town. They'd nearly been killed running away from bad guys who were probably still back there. Turning around wasn't an option. Through the front windshield, Carter could barely process what he was seeing. In front of them was supposed to be safety and a place of refuge. Instead, he found himself staring at yet another barricade. It stretched from fence to fence and was manned by at least four people with rifles. Rifles that had been raised and were pointed directly at them.

S
EVENTY
-E
IGHT

S
helby's first concern was Max and Carter.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” said Carter.

“You're sure?” She was turned in her seat, running her hands up and down his arms—checking for broken bones or bullet wounds.

“I'm sure.”

“They didn't—”

“I'm fine, Mom. But who are those people? What are we going to do about Max? Are we going to die here? Why did we even come?”

Instead of answering, she said, “Help me move him over.”

They both got out of the truck. She didn't know if the people tending the roadblock would shoot, but she didn't think so. She'd stopped the truck a good thirty yards back, and she posed no threat. Plus, she had no other option. She needed to get in the driver's seat.

Shelby ran around to Max's side of the truck and carefully opened the door. He nearly fell out when she did, his eyes fluttering open for a moment before closing again.

“Pull him over, Carter.”

“I'm trying, but he's deadweight.” Carter froze, his eyes finding his mom's.

“He's not dead. It's only a migraine. A very bad one. You remember.”

“Yeah. I do.”

Once they had him in the middle of the seat, his head resting back in an awkward position, Shelby climbed back into the truck and buckled
him in. She pulled Max's hand into her lap and felt for a pulse—one of the few medical skills she'd acquired while working at Green Acres. It seemed erratic, but strong, the beats from his heart tapping a rhythm against her fingertips.

“He's okay?”

“He will be. We need to get him to the ranch, find his medication, and get him into a dark room.” She started the truck and drove slowly toward the barricade.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Carter asked.

“No.”

“But—”

“But where we're going is down this road.” She glanced at Carter and attempted a smile. “Have faith, son. We've made it this far.”

She stopped ten yards from the collection of farm equipment, vehicles, and armed men.

“Are they going to shoot us?”

“I don't know. I don't… I don't think so.”

No one moved, so Shelby switched off the vehicle.

“I'll do it.”

“No!” Turning to Carter, she said, “I'll do this. You stay in the truck.”

“But I could—”

“Stay here. Promise me.”

He nodded once, and she knew the odds were even that he would follow her out anyway. She added, “Watch after Max.”

She stepped out of the truck, her hands up in the air, palms facing toward the armed men. Crossing those thirty feet felt like the longest walk of her life, but what choice did she have? They couldn't drive back the way they had come, and this was the only way forward.

Her eyes scanned left to right—four boys between the ages of fifteen and twenty if she were to guess. The oldest of the group, greasy black hair flopping in his eyes, straightened up and pointed his rifle at her. He wore a dirty T-shirt and had the tanned outdoor look of a kid raised on a farm. “You need to turn around.”

“We can't do that.”

“Ma'am, no one goes down this road who doesn't live down this road.”

Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear its rhythm in her ears.
She swallowed, closed her eyes, and prayed for courage and strength and wisdom.

“Ma'am, I need you to turn around. We don't want to hurt y'all.”

“We do live here.”

“Say again?”

“We live here. What I mean is, we will be living here. On the High Fields Ranch—Georgia and Roy Berkman's place.”

The teenager consulted another boy—this one chubby with a shock of red hair. Both stood in the beds of two separate trucks, peering over the cabs. The other two stood at the ends of the barricades. They didn't speak or move, but kept their rifles pointed at Shelby. Whoever had trained them had done a good job. She doubted anyone would get down this road without permission or a gunfight.

“Berkmans don't have no daughters,” the black-haired boy said. He seemed to be the spokesman for the group.

“No. They don't, but they have a son. We're here with Max, and he's…” Her tears started to fall, but she didn't dare brush them away. “Max is hurt, and he's in the truck.” Her arms began to shake, but she didn't dare drop them to her side.

The redheaded boy had been crouched down, resting his rifle over the cab of the truck. He reached for something next to him and pulled up a pair of binoculars. One hand still on the rifle, he studied the truck through the binoculars.

“It's him.”

Shelby heard crickets, the
cheer, cheer, cheer
of a cardinal, and the ticking of the truck's engine.

“He doesn't look so good.” Dropping his rifle and binoculars on the cab of the truck, he jumped out of it with surprising agility.

All four boys ran toward her, past her, and to Max.

Shelby's legs finally gave out. She dropped to her knees on the caliche road, barely noticing the dust and rocks. Hands on the ground, she bowed her head, and she thanked God that his protection and guidance had brought them home.

S
EVENTY
-N
INE

M
ax woke to complete darkness. He didn't need to see to know that he was in his old bedroom at High Fields. The smell of cedar had pervaded the place since they'd built it when he was just a scrawny kid. Though his family had continued to live in Abney during the week, they'd spent nearly every weekend at the ranch.

He swung his legs to the floor and sat up. His head felt like a giant ball of cotton, but the horrific pulsing in his right temple had ceased.

Lurching to his feet, he crossed the room and opened the blackout curtains. The sky was barely tinted with light—sunset or sunrise? Pulling on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, he walked across the hall to the bathroom, where everything seemed to be working. He raised the back of the toilet tank and noticed someone had added a few bricks to it, converting it to lower water usage. Washing his hands, he ignored the image in the mirror and instead hurried to the kitchen, where he stopped short in the kitchen doorway.

“Sleepyhead is out of bed.” His mother smiled as she came over and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I hope you're feeling better.”

“I am. Thanks.”

His mom wore jeans and a T-shirt that said My Superpower Is Quilting. What's Yours? Her hair was slightly grayer than he remembered—which didn't seem possible in just three weeks' time. She looked healthy, though, and didn't seem particularly disturbed by the turn of events.

Shelby studied him over the rim of her coffee cup, a smile playing on her lips. Black curls spilled in every direction, but she looked rested. She
looked better than she had in the truck, as she'd been trying to cover Carter's body with her own.

The memories rushed back at him with the power of a freight train. He pulled a chair out from the dining room table and dropped into it.

“How's the migraine?” His father held up the pot of coffee, and Max nodded gratefully.

All of his life Max had been told he was the spitting image of his father, and he supposed that was true. Many times looking at the man felt like looking into a mirror.

“Better. It's much better.”

His mom bustled around the stove. “You were in some terrible shape yesterday.”

So it was sunrise. He'd slept nearly twenty-four hours.

“Good thing you had Shelby with you.” His dad carried two steaming coffee mugs to the table, placed one at Max's spot, and sat down across from him.

How many times had they eaten in this room, the four of them? His mom and dad on one side of the table, he and Shelby on the other? It was as if the pieces of a puzzle had clicked together and he could finally see the picture clearly.

“Shelby's been telling us all the news from Abney.” His mom set a loaf of uncut bread on the table, along with a tub of butter and a jar of fresh preserves.

“How did you manage to cook the bread?” Max asked.

“The oven still works, but it heats up the kitchen too much. Your father is quite the mechanical engineer. He made me an old-fashioned oven out of some spare barbecue grill parts.”

“She has to go outside to use it.”

“But I don't mind. Cooking outside, it feels almost natural.”

“It will be interesting to see if you feel that way in August.” His father winked and passed Max a small pitcher of cream.

Max sipped the coffee and listened to his parents discuss the chickens and cow and general details of farm life at High Fields.

“We're using the generator to keep a few things cold,” his mother said. “Including Carter's medicine.”

When he'd downed half the cup and the migraine cloud had begun to fade, Max asked, “Carter is okay?”

“Sleeping in. No surprise there,” Shelby said.

Max could tell she was still concerned about Carter. He understood the reasons for the frown lines between her eyes, but at least she wasn't carrying that backpack with her everywhere. No one needed that type of burden. You couldn't carry life and death on your back like some sort of tortoise shell. Somewhere, sometime, you had to lay that burden down. It seemed, for the moment, that she had.

“How did we get here? When did I pass out?”

“You were doing a pretty good imitation of Jeff Gordon before it happened.”

“I remember pulling onto the county road with the monster trucks in hot pursuit.”

“We had heard about them,” his father said. “It's part of the reason we set up the blockade at the county roads. Once those hoodlums found out we would fight back, they moved on to easier targets.”

“That's the last thing I remember seeing. Logan Hunter manning the roadblock.”

“I wasn't sure he was going to let us through.” Shelby attempted to laugh, but Max could tell from the way she stared down into her coffee cup that she was still shaken by the events of the previous day.

“Shelby talked them down. After they realized who you were, they radioed ahead and we met her at the gate.”

“Radioed?”

“CBs and such. It's funny what people have found in their barns and sheds that have proven useful since the flare.”

So they knew. Of course they did—Jerry Lambert had told him as much. But hearing it from someone else, and seeing it for himself were two different things. His parents knew about the flare, about the extent of the damage, and they were handling it as they handled everything—by moving forward one step at a time.

His father mentioned the flare so simply, like another aberration of nature that they would somehow work their way through. In the same way that they'd survived floods and droughts, harsh winters, and record-high summers. His father's quiet confidence did more to ease the anxiety in Max's heart than a hundred government bulletins.

Suddenly Max realized he was famished.

He ate two pieces of the bread while his mother scrambled eggs. They'd never switched over to an electric stove and kept the large propane tank outside well-maintained and full. It wouldn't last them through the winter, though. His parents, more than anyone else, would understand the importance of saving resources for the coming days. Max was surprised she was using it to cook breakfast when they could have made do with the bread. No doubt, she was celebrating the return of her son.

E
IGHTY

A
s they ate they discussed the aurora, the notices from the federal and state government, and how things were deteriorating in Abney. His father asked specifics about what the council and police and emergency personnel had done.

After Max had explained as best he could, his father grunted.

“I don't know, Dad. On one hand, they're pulling together and doing well.” Max sat back, his stomach full for the first time in several days. “But each time they're hit with another tragedy—”