CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Adam and Eve sat upon a bench in the garden. The children were as still as statues, motionless and resembling two monks in meditation. Occasionally one would mutter something under their breath. Stephanie Yurik sat across from them with a legal pad and pen, transcribing their words as they journeyed in their minds.

  “North America is a wasteland,” Adam whispered.

  “Tell me about that,” Dr. Yurik pressed, “Can you describe the geography?”

  “Cities are gone.”

  “Which cities?”

  “Nearly all. What’s left will deteriorate quickly or become covered in ash. Everything is already buried under several feet, and any structure over twenty feet has been destroyed or compromised except in a few places spared direct hits.”

  “Is ash still falling?” she asked.

  “Yes,” the boy answered. “It’s mixed with the snow and packing new layers each day. This will compact as pumice, forming new rock layers that will hide civilization in time.”

  “Where’s the highest volcanic activity? Is it still the old Yellowstone crater?”

  Eve spoke up. “I’m flying over that region now. It’s vast, Stephanie. The entire crater has caved in upon itself and it spans hundreds of miles.”

  “Do you see any evidence of resettlement?” Jake had insisted she get accurate locations of any populations surviving the chain of events.

  “Not near the crater,” Adam replied. “Nothing will grow there for centuries if ever.” Then he gasped and exclaimed, “Look at that crack!”

  Dr. Yurik asked, “What crack?”

  Eve answered, “A very large fault opened up from the southern tip of the crater all the way to the southern edge of the continent. Cinders are rising from it as if there’s magma flow beneath.”

  “Southern tip?” Stephanie was mildly confused. “But the two continents connect!”

  “Not any longer,” Adam replied. “They’re completely separated.”

  She tried not to betray her alarm at the news and prompted the children to travel eastward. “What about along the Great Lakes Region.”

  Eve replied, “There’s only one lake now. It’s very large, almost a sea.”

  Stephanie had a tough time keeping calm at that news, but held it together.

  “Wait,” Adam said, “There’s a population center here.”

  Dr. Yurik nodded. She and the others had estimated survivors. The eastern and western seaboards had received most of the attention from the nuclear arsenals, and any populations would be west of the Appalachian Mountains. “Are they where we thought we’d find them?”

  “Where the rivers meet,” he said, “many still gather. Most are ill, but more survived than I first predicted.”

  “Expand on that,” she told them. “Tell me exactly what you see.” She pulled up a map on her tablet, zooming in on the Ohio River Valley. Moving west along the snaking Ohio River, she focused on the Shawnee National Forest. Depending on winds, the fallout from cities of Nashville, Louisville, and St. Louis would avoid much of the area where the river met the Mississippi.

  “They’re huddled, confused and unsure what to do.” He drifted into a deeper trance. When the children entered this state, Stephanie always paid close attention. Their visions would prove prophetic, not only seeing the present, but also telling of things yet to come. “The leadership will emerge from here,” Adam explained. “Bands of people will look to warlords to lead them, some ruthless, some lawless, but a few truly concerned about the people. A year of sadness will extend into many more of violence while new lines are drawn.”

  Dr. Yurik took down his words and added her own notations. The toughest resistance to repopulation will be here. She drew a quick sketch, then circled a region centered around what was once the Ohio River Valley.

*****

  Cathy stared out the southern window, unable to tear her eyes from the falling snow. She remembered when she was young. She would do the same, but had watched with anticipation and yearned to run outside and play. Josh asked about that possibility, eager to frolic. She understood his impatience. The entire household was fed up with confinement and several weeks inside the structure had taken their toll. But she knew the accumulation outside was different than before, and no one would enjoy any recreation it offered. What had once drifted to the ground in layers of welcoming white now fell clumsily as lumps of dark gray, filled with ash from the darkened sky above.

  Oddly, the scene brought to mind a memory from a vacation long ago when her parents had taken her to visit the big island of Hawaii. There, she first discovered black sand beaches. She had found odd beauty in how the volcanic rock had rendered to crystals, the result of enduring thousands of years of tidal friction. At the time, the image had invoked feelings of peace and relaxation, as the fierce blue tropical waters starkly contrasted the trailing onyx shoreline. The reflected hues of lush foliage added a splash of color to the palette that left her yearning to remain on vacation forever.

  But no such beauty existed in the world outside this window. The lush tree line between John’s home and the swollen river had blended into the horizon, now as dark and terrifying as a haunted forest from a fairy tale. The gnarled branches had lost their leaves prematurely, surprised barren by the abruptness of winter. Nuclear Winter, she thought, recalling the lesson of warning John had given to her and Josh. Though softer than the raining debris and radiation from the fallout, this was just as dangerous.

  A voice made Cathy jump. “That fool is shoveling.”

  She turned to find that Jenny had looked up from her easel, brush hovering in midair as she strained to see past her houseguest. Turning, Cat saw that John had begun working on shoveling a path to the barn. The tall walls of ash and snow beside the walk revealed several feet had already accumulated.

  In his defense, Cat said, “He promised the radiation isn’t as bad now and will only be strong in the ground zero hotspots.”

  Jenny smiled. That was the woman’s gift to the world, Cathy realized early on, Jenny Klingensmith could warm a room with laughing eyes and a blushing beam. But behind this one lurked a cautiousness, as if she hid deeper knowledge only a wife would know.

  “Besides,” Cat went on, “he wouldn’t go against caution, not after he’s stressed it to all of us.”

  “Don’t sanctify John Klingensmith just yet,” his wife said with a chuckle. “That man’s ornerier than a polecat. Sometimes the rules don’t apply to him.” She beckoned with the brush. “Come over here, dear, and take a look at this.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Cathy rose from the window seat and walked over to the older woman, glancing down at the canvas she had been working on. It matched the way the southern view would have looked before the recent chain of events. The depiction was perfect, gorgeous in every detail and starkly contrasting the hellish image outside.

  “It’s beautiful,” the young woman said.

  “It was,” Jenny agreed. “I wanted to paint it before I forgot how it used to look.”

  Cathy’s eyes darted back and forth from the painting to the view of the real world beyond the glass. Looking at the scenery earlier had been awful, full of depression and lacking hope. Now, knowing how the farm had been before, she realized what the world had lost. Gone from the eye was beauty, now existing only in the hearts of those like Jenny who refuse to forget.

  She swallowed. “It’ll return to normal soon,” she promised. “Just give it time.”

  Jenny chuckled. “Don’t use optimism on me, dear.” She smiled and winked, then added, “I invented optimism. No, take a closer look at the snowpack.”

  “I see it well enough. It’s full of ash and piled high.”

  “When I was in art school I studied abroad,” Jenny explained. “I traveled to Italy and studied at the Accademia di Belle Arti de Roma, the University of Fine Arts of Rome. Two and a half hours away by bus we traveled to what was once a field, very much like ours. We camped an entire week in that pasture, and it taught me everything I need to know now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One day three hundred years ago, the shepherd of that field noticed one of his sheep had disappeared. Worried it may be wolves, he ventured out warily armed with only a staff.”

  “What did he find?”

  “A hole.”

  “The sheep fell in?”

  “The ground had crumbled beneath its feet, sending it ten or so feet down into the hole. The poor thing was bleating and crying for rescue, and the man ran back to town for rope and men to help lower him. When they returned and lowered him down, he entered an ancient world. He found himself inside a Roman house, dating all the way to the empire. His friends tossed him a torch and he held it aloft, reflecting four walls of beautiful fresco paintings.”

  “Where was he?”

  “The ancient city of Pompeii. It was lost in 79 A.D. during a volcanic eruption. Mount Vesuvius rained down fire and ash, much as Yellowstone is doing now, but on a much smaller scale. It happened so fast that the entire city and all its occupants were buried alive. Husbands clung to their wives, families huddled together for warmth, and animals died in their pens.”

  “How do you know they didn’t get away in time?”

  “Because their bodies were perfectly cast in the ash, preserved like statues for future generations to find.”

  Cat stood silently, eyes returned to the window and the snow piled several feet high along the path John had dug. When she finally spoke it was in a whisper. “This won’t let up for a while, will it?”

  “I hope so, but I doubt it. Doubled with the nuclear winter, John thinks it will last a season, maybe two. He said the snow will eventually melt, but the layers of wet ash will be like the rock of Pompeii, sealing our world in a tomb. Who knows? Maybe in twelve or more centuries our world will be unrecognizable—buried beneath black rock and soil for a new civilization to discover.”

  “That’s why he’s shoveling,” Cathy realized. “He wants to keep a path to the barn so you guys can continue working when things get back to normal.”

  “Nothing’s returning to normal, dear.” Her smile faded and sadness filled the artist’s eyes, with wet tears softly painting her eyelids. “John didn’t tell you why he’s on hiatus from the University.”

  “No,” Cat agreed. “He didn’t.”

  “He’s got prostate cancer, and the worst kind. The doctor gave him a year six months ago.”

  “That’s why he’s not worried about the radiation.” The young woman’s eyes followed him as he shoveled, trenching slower than he had earlier but now three fourths of the way to the barn door.

  Jenny nodded. “He’s trying to ensure I’m taken care of when he’s gone.”

  Cathy spotted something in the trees, subtle movement that caught her full attention. Three men clad in tactical fatigues crouched in a grove, watching John as he worked. Each stranger carried a rifle on his back, but not the hunting kind. These were as black as their clothing and terrifying.

  “Jenny…” She pointed to the men. One of them approached John.

  The women held their breath, focused on the exchange. The men kept their voices low and both appeared calm. At one point, the newcomer pointed toward the house. John shook his head as if saying, “no.”

  The other man smiled, put his hand out to shake, and Klingensmith took it. Then the stranger turned to leave, casually joining the others in the trees as they also turned to leave. John waited until they had disappeared from view, then calmly returned to the house, leaning the shovel against the porch as he shook ash from his boots. After what felt like an eternity to the women, he finally entered and said nothing as he crossed the room to collapse in his chair.

  “John,” Jenny asked. He did not respond with words, uttering only a disinterested grunt. “Johnny,” she pressed, “what did he want?”

  He refused to answer, walking toward a closet in the hall. He opened it, scanning the shelf for something left unused for a very long time. After a few moments he found what he was looking for and pulled down two boxes. One was a small container, unadorned and inauspicious. The other was a long gun case.

  “Lock the doors,” he commanded. “And move the furniture against the downstairs windows.”

  “Who were those men?” Cathy pressed.

  He said nothing more as he opened the case and drew out a hunting rifle. He set the weapon on the table and returned the case to the closet. Reaching deep into the back, pushing aside some winter coats, he drew out a shotgun. Cathy immediately realized the device was old, the barrel blued, and the stock deeply worn by time. Only a miracle would prevent it from blowing up on whichever of them had to fire the thing.

  John’s wife snatched it from his hands. “What did Crazy Mike want?” she demanded, her laughing eyes replaced by fire.

  “Mike Stapleton was only checking in on us,” he said quietly.

  “Crazy Mike?” Cat asked, incredulous. “Who is Mike Stapleton,” she asked, “and why did you call him crazy?”

  “He’s a prepper,” Jenny replied. “Been talking about the end of times for years. Rambling about communist takeover and even nuclear war.”

  “Well,” Cat said, “turns out he was right about part of it.”

  “Seems he was,” John agreed, “but that doesn’t make him less or more crazy.”

  “Everyone in these parts expected a Ruby Ridge fiasco to take place on his spread, knowing he’d fire first if law enforcement ever stepped on his property.” Jenny explained. “Mike’s trigger happy and barricaded his entire family on their farm. What did he say, John?” Her eyes had lost much of her anger, but the fear remained, dampening much of their brightness.

  “He said we’re welcome to join him and his family, that he liked us and appreciated our kindness over the years. Said there’s plenty of room if we do.”

  “But you said no, right?”

  “I did. I told him I listened to at least part of his warnings over the years and stocked up on supplies like he suggested.”

  Cat turned to Jenny who nodded and said, “We’ve enough canned and non-perishable food and water in the basement to last John and me at least a year.”

  “Then what’s the problem,” Cathy asked, suddenly very worried. “Why did you say to brace the windows?”

  “Because I, unlike Mike, never stocked up on ammunition or planned for defending the farm.”

  “Why,” she questioned, “is that a problem?”

  “Because Mike just told me gangs from Indianapolis and St. Louis have a foothold north of the river in Evansville.”

  “Is that true?” Cat asked.

  He nodded. “They have left the big cities to cook their drugs in the rural areas, and they’ve a presence in Evansville, for sure.”

  “But that’s north of the river,” Jenny argued, pointing the direction of the swollen body of water that carried Cat and Josh all the way from Michigan. “Surely there’s no way they’re crossing into our area.”

  John fell silent, dark thoughts swirling in his mind as he reasoned how to respond. After a while he said, “Mike said he and his boys chased a dozen or so gangsters off his land a day ago. He followed their trail through the woods and tracked them here.”

  Jenny gasped, falling into a chair.

  Cat frowned, “Furniture against the windows won’t do,” she said.

  “No,” he agreed. “But they’ll do in a pinch. We need to shore up the house as soon as possible. I’ve got some plywood in the barn, and we can dismantle walls if we run out of that. But I can’t do it alone.”

  “I’ll help,” she promised. “Let’s get started.”