And of course there were people who didn’t believe anything would happen. Ben didn’t know how people could ignore what was right in front of them, how they could even casually look at the news, find out Europe and Asia were dark, and still think it wouldn’t happen to them. They went on about their lives as normally as they could, laughing at those who were making preparations. This wasn’t Y2K. They wouldn’t be laughing tomorrow.
He hoped Sela Gordon wasn’t in that group. He’d done what he could, given her a heads-up. He could have—probably should have—gone to a bigger store in town for the few supplies he’d decided to add to his stash. No one there would have thought twice about his purchases, the way Sela had. Everything would’ve been cheaper, too. No small store could compete with a chain, pricewise.
He could’ve charged everything to his credit card, knowing the store wouldn’t be able to collect for a long time, if ever, because all data before the coming grid crash could well be lost. Like everyone else, he wanted to conserve his cash. But when it came down to it, he didn’t want to stiff Sela. She’d need cash, too, more than he would, because he was far more self-sufficient.
His errant second thoughts didn’t last long. He simply hadn’t been able to pass by her store without experiencing a gut-deep feeling that he should tell her what was coming. She wasn’t his responsibility; no one was, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable leaving her hanging. His read on her was that she was one of the gentle souls, a quiet, warm light in a world that needed all the warmth it could get. Gentle didn’t mean weak, though, and he hoped she’d acted on his warning.
That single warning was where his desire to participate in life beyond his cabin ended. He expected he wouldn’t see another living soul for months, maybe years, and that suited him just fine.
Don’t tempt the devil.
No sooner had he had the thought than the motion alarm sounded, immediately proving him wrong. Hoping his visitor was a bear, he turned to check the video camera, and swore aloud. A middle-aged, slightly overweight man was huffing and puffing his way up the incline toward the porch, head down, steps short. His gaze narrowed, Ben took his Mossberg shotgun from its usual place by the front door and stepped outside.
He wasn’t trying to be stealthy, because he wanted the visitor to realize he was there and not come any closer. At the sound of the door closing, the trespasser stopped, lifted his head, and immediately fixed his gaze on the shotgun. He lifted his right hand in a staying motion. “Mornin’. I’m Mike Kilgore, from the valley.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You have a big-ass rock in your driveway. I had to park at the end of the drive and walk up.”
“I know. I put it there. What can I do for you?” Ben’s tone was matter-of-fact. He didn’t intend to do anything, he just wanted this man gone.
Mike Kilgore took a couple of deep breaths so he could speak more easily. “We’re trying to get organized, in case . . . you know. Things happen, people need to be notified. Anyway, no one had your phone number or someone would have called, so I volunteered to drive up and talk to you.” He wiped the sweat off his face. The early morning was still fairly cool, but walking up the drive would wring a sweat from almost anyone. Ben could do it without effort, but he made a point of being able to do so. Graying hair stuck to Kilgore’s temples, and his cheeks were unnaturally pink. “We’re also putting together a list of contacts—you know, next of kin, in case something happens, to let them know after things normalize.”
Ben gave a brief thought to his father, a rancher in Montana, who didn’t give a shit about any of his kids. His mother was dead. His father had remarried and the other kids were Ben’s half siblings, none of whom he was close to. They might be interested in knowing if he’d died, but only to find out if they’d inherited his stuff, in which case they’d be disappointed.
A good neighbor would invite the man in for a drink of water or even a cup of coffee, but Ben wasn’t a good neighbor and didn’t intend to be. He maintained his stance on the porch with the shotgun in his hand. If no one around had his phone number, then it should be obvious that he didn’t want calls. Or visits.
But Mike Kilgore wasn’t about to leave before he accomplished his mission. And now that he was closer, and Ben was seeing him in person, he altered his impression of Kilgore from “overweight” to “stocky muscular.”
“Anyway,” Kilgore continued, “the school will be our community meeting place. If the power does go down, that’s where we’ll gather this afternoon to get things organized. At times like this we need to band together, neighbor helping neighbor. We’d like to have you join us. You have some useful skills, and, hell, under some circumstances you might need us. I’m a plumber, by the way. Everyone eventually needs a plumber.”
That might be a universal truth, but Ben didn’t respond.
“My wife and I live on Myra Road, down the way from Sela Gordon.” Kilgore swiped at his sweaty forehead. “You know Sela, right? Owns the little store on the highway? I think I’ve seen your truck there. Some of the women want her to be in charge, but”—he shrugged—“she isn’t willing, and I’m thinking she might not be strong enough for the job, anyway. On the other hand, you’d be perfect.”
“No.” Ben’s rejection was swift and flat. He had no desire to be in charge of anyone other than himself. He’d had enough of that in the military.
Kilgore took a step back. “Well, if you change your mind . . .”
“I won’t.”
He glanced at the shotgun. “Think about—”
Ben gave a deliberate, definite shake of his head.
Kilgore heaved a sigh. “Well, I tried. If you change your mind, come to the meeting at the school.” He looked down Ben’s driveway and scowled. “I’m going to have to back down the road a ways. There’s no place to turn my truck around for at least half a mile.”
“I know.” Ben didn’t offer assistance, or express sympathy. Kilgore would spread the word. He wouldn’t be back, and neither would anyone else he talked to about Ben’s lack of hospitality. And the shotgun. Perfect.
He stood on the porch and watched Kilgore leave. After the other man had trudged out of sight, Ben went back inside and stood the shotgun in its place beside the door.
He thought about Sela Gordon being in charge of the valley, and couldn’t quite picture it. She was so damn quiet it was hard to tell, but he figured she was competent and probably better suited to the job than most, if she could develop a sense of command.
Ben’s way of organizing would be to tell everyone they were on their own. Those who were unprepared had only themselves to blame. Those who had prepared would be okay, for the most part. People would die, and soon, but here in this part of the world, most would probably do just fine. They could hunt and forage, fish and barter with neighbors. Those who were so inclined would band together and make it work.
They didn’t need him, and he sure as hell didn’t need them.
Ted Parsons sat on his screened-in porch and looked out over the valley. It was always quiet here, but at the moment the silence was deeper than usual, more complete. Even the birds seemed to be hunkered down, waiting for the solar event to pass.