Chapter 1
Carefully avoiding my eye makeup, I wipe the back of my hand against my forehead. I’ve been at this forever. Punctuating my assessment, a drop of water runs down my nose. Ugh. I swipe again, this time using my forearm. I probably just streaked everything. I’ll fix my face if I ever finish this sinkful. Everything takes longer since the electricity went out, especially the dishes.
It’s only been five days since the attacks started, but things have changed in those days. It’s like we’re now living in a third world country. First the planes crashed, then bridges were blown up—which caused a crazy mass panic—and then, on Saturday, the cyberattacks started. At first, we all thought Prospect might be spared. The reports of lights going out and phones not working started several hours before we had any troubles. I was at work when the lights flickered. After the third flicker, they didn’t come back on.
Around the time the lights went out, the phones started messing up. Grant and I had intermittent service into the next day, but eventually all the cell phone carriers and landline providers succumbed to the cyberattacks. Even the traffic lights in Prospect stopped working. Everything computerized was targeted.
The front door rattles. I stiffen. Is someone breaking in? Not bothering to dry my hands, I grab for a butcher knife and quickly move toward the sliding door. Grant’s mom gave us a fire escape ladder for Christmas so we could get out of our second-floor apartment. Will I have time to use it? My throat tightens, and I feel my shoulders lift toward my ears.
With a squeak, the door cracks open. Grant sticks his head in. “Hey, Shelby.” His smile immediately falters. “Whoa, babe. What’s going on?”
“You . . . you scared me. I didn’t—we need a code. I thought you were a robber. Or worse.” My hand goes to my throat; my breath is shallow.
He moves inside and sets a five-gallon water jug on the floor, then retrieves the second jug he had to put down to open the door—and to scare the life out of me!
“Sorry, babe.” Moving quickly toward me, he takes me in his arms. “Relax. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
I cough several times. “We really need a code. You weren’t gone very long. Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s great. You okay? Do you need a treatment?”
I cough again and wave him away. “Why was today quicker?”
“They added a new water station.”
“A new water station? Where? You went there?” The city officials have been pumping water out of the nearby creek and putting it in portable cisterns, then taking it to various locations on our end of town. On the other end of town, they’re doing the same thing but pumping from the river, which skirts the east side of Prospect.
He gives me a patient smile. “I went to my usual spot at the hospital, but the line was shorter since other people went to the new one.”
“That’s great. Any news?” I ask, returning to my dishes.
“Nothing new. No terrorist attacks today. Not yet, anyway.”
“So maybe it’s over?”
“Maybe. But it’s still early. Sometimes we don’t hear about them until later,” Grant says, grabbing the jug of bleach. The water in our apartment stopped working within a few hours of the lights going out. Within a day, it was out everywhere and the water stations were set up. Even before the water stopped working, we had to purify what came out of the tap because of E. coli and typhoid fears, due to other towns’ water supplies being sabotaged.
“Way to be a Debbie Downer. If there’s another attack, I really want to talk about— ”
“Not now, Shelby.”
I give a curt nod.
“Are you okay on water?” he asks.
“I’m fine, just about finished.”
“Don’t forget to save the rinse water.”
I shoot him a look. The day after the power went out, we managed to do some serious shopping. Grant and I both work at the SuperMart—or maybe worked is the right term. We don’t know when or if the store will reopen. When the power went out on Saturday, we were sent home with instructions to show up for our regular Sunday shift, whether the lights were back on or not. Our managers set things up so we could help people shop by letting only a handful of people in at a time and one of us escorting them through the store and recording the cost of their purchases.
The process worked well the first hour or so, then there was grumbling in the line and a couple of arguments in the store. Those issues were handled, and things kept on an even keel. Even so, the tension in the air was almost palpable. With each passing moment, the calm seemed to unravel, like pulling a loose thread on a sweater.
Grant and I helped a couple who were doing some serious purchasing. They, the man especially, seemed to think the power would be out for a long time. They were also kind enough to suggest things we should buy. And after we helped them out with their shopping, they gave us a huge tip—over five hundred dollars!
Grant was due for a break, so our manager let him shop without needing to wait in line—a rarity since we’re not even supposed to shop when we’re on our shift, break or not. It’s a good thing he did because the shelves were emptying out fast. At that point, our manager started limiting purchases. No more than two like items per family, except for produce. He thought it best to not limit those purchases since they’re perishable and he’d prefer people buy the produce rather than it rotting in the store.
Most items in the meat and freezer cases were already pulled out, due to health codes, before we opened. A generator kept one case working where the eggs and butter were displayed. Sometimes I wonder what happened to the meat and frozen goods. Did the managers take them home? I hope someone was able to use them instead of them all going to waste.
As soon as it was my break time, I also shopped. Neither of us could pay until the store closed, so we kept our carts in the backroom. Things completely fell apart when someone pulled a gun in the line outside. The situation was controlled and the person pulling the gun apologized, saying she’d just lost her head for a moment. But the shopping was halted. Our manager said they’d try it again the next day but would put different rules in place.
Our shopping followed the same rules as regular customers, as far as the cost being written down and sticking to limits, which we all did as we filled our carts. We paid in cash. Those of us working were promised double-time pay for the day, but our manager also gave us each a hundred-dollar credit. He didn’t offer anything for the time we are owed toward our pay period, saying corporate will take care of that when the power returns.
Just like there were unhappy customers about our shopping process, there were unhappy employees. Several thought we should get whatever we needed, or wanted, simply for the fact we’re employees. There was a lot of grumbling, but nothing changed. In the end, how employees felt didn’t really matter.
As we were finishing up, the chief of police showed up with the mayor and said they were confiscating everything left in the store. They did allow us to take our purchases, but everything else is now city property to be doled out in some manner yet to be determined. At least that’s what we think will happen. So far, the process has yet to begin. The two other grocery stores were also taken over. There are still a few businesses open in town, but for the most part, all of Prospect is unemployed.
Grant made many brilliant purchases on our crazy shopping day, including a couple of rubber dish tubs. These we set in the sink when we do dishes to help us conserve water. The rinse water is reheated to become the wash water next time. It’s gross, but it makes sense. Hauling water isn’t easy.
“You want to— ” Grant stops midsentence as a shot rings out. He shakes his head. “I figured it wouldn’t be long until they started shooting the town deer.”
Four more shots follow. “How many deer are they shooting?” I ask.
Then things are suddenly crazy, with too much gunfire to even count the shots. “Get down,” Grant says, pulling me to the ground.
I put a hand protectively over my stomach. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing good,” he answers.
“Where are they? Are they shooting at us?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Then who?” My breathing is labored, and I’m suddenly feeling sick.
“Stay calm, and watch your breathing. I think maybe it’s coming from the hospital,” he guesses, then croons, “We’re okay.”
“The hospital! Who would shoot at the hospital? Besides, that can’t be right. They put up those gun-free signs. You can’t take guns to the hospital.”
He gives me a look.
“Oh,” I say, realizing the signs aren’t much of a deterrent. We huddle close on the floor, me gasping for breath.
“Are you okay, Shelby? Do you need your inhaler?”
“I’m okay,” I say, catching my breath. “I’m just scared.”
He nods and pulls me closer. “We’re okay. I think it’s almost over. The shots are spreading out.”
“You mean slowing down?”
“Right. I think it’ll stop soon.”
“Then what?”
He pulls me even closer in response. I feel myself calming as we shift into a sitting position. He kisses my cheek, the stubble from his chin brushing like sandpaper, then lays a hand across my growing stomach. “We’ll stay here until we’re sure it’s over.”
Chapter 2
“Is it done? Can we get up?”
“Maybe,” Grant answers with a shrug. “Let’s just wait another minute or two.”
He pushes a hank of bleach blond hair off his forehead. While he’s been working toward Wyomingizing his look by removing his lip and tongue rings, he’s yet to give up his surfer hair or laid-back attire. Last time we saw his grandpa, he made a point of saying Grant is finally starting to look like the wholesome boy he remembered. He followed that with, “Now, it’s about time you make amends with your dad.”
I take a deep breath and caress my stomach. There’s a strange smell, like burning wire. The stench causes my stomach to flip.
“Pee-yew. What’s burning?” I ask.
“Could be from the shooting,” Grant says. “The gunpowder.”
“I don’t think so.”
Like a Labrador, Grant sniffs at the air. “You’re right. There’s a fire.”
“In our building?”
“Maybe. Let’s go.” He stands and offers me his hand. Getting to my feet, I teeter slightly as I struggle to get my glossy-black platform pumps under me. As soon as I’m stable, he delivers a quick kiss. I stare at him as he says, “We’re okay. Breathe easy.” Then he moves quickly to the kitchen, returning with a damp dish towel. “Use this over your mouth,” he says. “And grab your purse. You have an inhaler in it?”
“Our stuff,” I say, gesturing at the things we’ve collected over the last few days. “We need these things or else . . . ”
“I’ll get you outside and safe, then deal with that. Your inhaler?”
“Yes, I have it.”
He grabs our two duffle bags loaded with essentials, packed by Grant in the days since the attacks, using the shoulder strap for the large bag and the handle for the smaller one. Even though Grant looks scrawny, he’s strong. At the door, he puts his palm flat against it. “Checking for heat,” he says.
“Is it okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Then he gingerly touches the knob. “We’re good. Let’s go.”
In the hallway are several neighbors. The woman from next door has a baby on her hip and is holding her toddler by the hand. “Is our building on fire?” she asks with barely concealed panic.
Grant shakes his head. “Don’t know. Best to get out just in case.”
“Can I take your little one?” I ask.
She glances at my swollen belly and shakes her head. “We’re okay. We’ll follow you down. Right, Mason? Let’s follow our neighbors.”
The toddler makes a noise I assume is an agreement as we start down the hall. There’s a bottleneck at the staircase with slight pushing and shoving.
“Hey, let’s calm down,” a voice booms in the small space.
“Mind your own business,” a nasally man responds.
I feel my chest begin to constrict as the space seems to tighten around me. We’re halfway down the stairs when the baby screams.
“Quiet down, kid,” Nasal Voice says.
Mason follows with his own yell as the crowd crushes closer. I didn’t even realize so many people lived in our building. I feel my chest starting to constrict.
“We’re almost out,” Grant whispers. “Almost there. You’re okay, Shelb. Hang on.”
The stairwell is full of people jockeying toward the exit. Someone is holding the door, calmly saying, “Just keep walking. Get out of the building and move away. Just keep walking.”
Finally, we’re out. I remove the towel from my mouth and suck in a breath of air, immediately regretting it. The smoke is thick. Grant ushers me to a tree. “Sit down. Lean against the tree and get your breathing under control.”
My asthma started when I was young. Then, when I was eleven, it seemed to go away. I was completely symptom free until the last few months. Now I have a rescue inhaler to use for emergencies. So far, the symptoms aren’t severe enough to use a daily steroid inhaler. My doctor said it’s not entirely uncommon for asthma to leave at puberty and return later in life, especially during pregnancy or a time of emotional upset. While I’m now excited that we’re going to have a baby, I wasn’t at first. It was a time of emotional upset. And with everything going on now . . . I practice my breathing. My baby needs my oxygen.
“You good?” Grant asks, worry painting his face.
“Better.” I attempt a smile, letting out a wheeze at the same time. “I don’t see any flames.”
“Me neither. I’m going to walk around the building to look for flames or smoke.”
“No need,” Nasal Voice responds. “It’s not us. Look.” He points behind us toward the hospital where smoke and flames are pouring out. With our attention now drawn to the hospital, the commotion is apparent.
“Shelby, are you okay here?”
“What do you mean?”
Gesturing toward the hospital, Grant says, “I’m going to help.”
“I’ll go with you,” Nasal Voice says.
My neighbor with the children says, “I’ll stay with her.”
I nod. “I’m okay. Be careful, Grant.”
He gives me a quick kiss, then he and Nasal Voice trot off to the hospital.
Sitting down and pulling Mason onto her lap, my neighbor says, “You seem to be breathing a little better. I was concerned when we were heading down the stairs.”
“Asthma,” I say with a hand wave.
“Sure.” She nods. “My brother has asthma.”
“I’m Shelby Wayman—I mean, Cameron.”
“Are you newlyweds?” she asks with a furtive glance toward my stomach.
“We’ve been married eight months, but I’ve always used my maiden name. Now, with the baby coming . . . ” I shrug.
“Children are a blessing from the Lord.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “I know we’ve seen each other in the halls, but I don’t remember your name.”
“Oh, sorry. I’m Kirstin Lewis. This little guy” —she nuzzles the baby’s neck, eliciting a giggle— “is Caleb. You’ve met my big guy, Mason.” At the sound of his name, he looks up from the stem of grass he’s examining.
“Hi, Mason. Are you finding something interesting?”
He smiles his response and returns to his investigation.
“Mason is a man of few words,” Kirstin says, “just like his dad.”
“Where’s your husband?”
She gives a sad smile. “My father-in-law died last week, before all this mess started. The funeral was Friday. I spoke with Ethan—that’s my husband—on Saturday before the phones stopped working. He was trying to figure out a way home. Now . . . ” She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Where was he?”
“Vegas.”
I nod. She must be totally freaking out, here alone with the children. We sit in silence as we stare at the hospital. I feel my chest loosening. After several comfortable breaths, I ask, “Are you still working?”
She shakes her head. “I do a little freelancing, but I stopped working when Mason was born. In fact, I should be getting some pictures. Can you hold the baby for a second?”
She hands him to me and takes her phone out of her pocket, then starts snapping photos of the fire. “This is terrible. But do you think they’re gaining on it? Do the flames seem less?”
“Umm, I’m not sure. Maybe?” I squint slightly, thinking it might help me discern exactly what’s happening. She might be right. They may be getting it under control. “Yeah, I think they are. That’s good. I was afraid it would burn to the ground. Whew.”
We watch as the bucket brigade continues fighting the fire. “So my husband, Ethan, he used to work at the lab in Cody,” Kirstin says. “He was among the first group of layoffs. We were fortunate he was able to find a job here in Prospect. He’s working at the landfill. Kind of a step down, but he’s happy just to be working, happy to be able to stay here. Thought we might have to move home.”
“To Vegas?”
“Nah. His dad moved there last year. We’re from a small town in Idaho you’ve probably never heard of. But with his job and the little bit I make from a blog and writing articles for the Prospector Peak Press—have you read it? It’s an online newspaper.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. There’s often articles linked to it on social media.”
“But you don’t subscribe?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Oh, well, that’s okay. Anyway, we make do. How about you? From your slight accent, I’d say you’re not from here either.”
“True. I’m from Kentucky, but Grant’s from here. His family has lived outside of Prospect since” —I shrug— “forever, I guess, like the 1930s.”
“It’s nice you have family here.” She puts her phone away and reaches for her baby. If she only knew the truth of it, she might not think it so nice.
“You moved into our building when? Early May?” she asks.
“End of April. But we moved to Prospect last fall. We were renting a studio apartment in a house, but we wanted a little more space.”
“So how did you meet?” she asks. “Over the internet?”
“Ha. No. Galveston. We were both working there for a season.”
“Sounds like that might be an interesting story.”
“Not really.” While we’ve been talking, I’ve kept my eyes on Grant as he makes his way to the hospital. He’s been helping people who were sitting near the building move away. He has his arm around a man, helping him walk. I watch as he sits the man down, then gestures toward the building. Oh, no. He runs toward one of the entrances.
Kirstin gasps. “Oh, the building, it’s . . . ” She pauses and shakes her head. “I thought it was going out. The fire, it’s . . . it’s completely out of control.”
“Yes,” I whisper, “and Grant just went inside.”
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