Spots swam before Josh’s eyes as he gulped air. Was he drowning? Larson marched Bill and Dean down the driveway his gun trained on them. Bill released one of Chip’s feet, and Larson poked him with the gun. Bill snarled.
“Don’t drop him.” Dean adjusted Chip’s shoulders.
“I didn’t do that on purpose.”
“Chip wouldn’t be dead if you hadn’t killed that lady.”
“You ate the bread. We all ate the bread, remember?” Bill’s jaw worked as though he were chewing leather.
“Deputy, you gotta believe me. I came to meet my brother. I don’t even know this guy.” Dean glared at Bill.
“I did read you your Miranda Rights, did I not? I’d appreciate you leaving your confessions for the judge.” Larson held the pistol steady on Bill and Dean as they shuffled down the driveway.
Why was it taking so long? His skin crawled as he touched the spot on his neck where Bill had…
“You knew someone would be coming for you, Bill, storm or no storm.” Larson disappeared behind the branches to his truck, glinting red through the tangle.
Josh rolled his tight shoulders and eased the door closed. He leaned against it. His gaze going to the spot where Chip had fallen, and his jaw clenched. Bill’s voice filtered into the house. Would he never shut up? He turned the deadbolt with a click.
Blips of Morse code echoed from the basement, and he peered out the door window as Deputy Larson’s truck engine roared to life. Finally.
He trotted down the steps as the message came through. At least they hadn’t heard the radio, but they knew it was here.
The call-sign PH was all he could make out the first time, but the message repeated. He wrote as fast as he could then read:
Cedarville, WA: no utilities, some local services, hospital open.
Grande Center: apartment building collapse, forty-eight fatalities, dozens injured.
Alert: storm approaching. Expect high winds.
He slumped into the swivel chair. Forty-eight fatalities? Why couldn’t he get good news for once? The room blurred as his eyes watered. Had mom made it to the hospital in one piece, and where was Uncle Carl now?
At least Deputy Larson showed up in time, and the farm was safe. We prepared for this, so why all the screw-ups? He gripped the arms of the chair, the walls seeming to close in on him.
He grabbed the Morse Code Key and wrote out his message, tuned the dial to the frequency Uncle Carl used. He listened. No incoming, so he tapped in:
- Woolf farm. Looters apprehended. Dad still MIA.
He sent another message to the local frequency without the bit about his dad. He balled his hands into fists then shook out his hands and coded his message. He checked each dot and dash he entered, and used his dad’s call sign, EW.
If this helped another family avoid looters, or at least prepare for them, he had to do it. Bill’s visit was his wake-up call. He would do whatever it took not to lose his connection to the outside world, even if he had to fight or all he got was bad news.
Grandpa always said, “You have to take the bad with the good.”
The wind whistled around the house. This was El Primo, but how would they survive one storm after another?
He sprang from the chair and ran upstairs. He’d do one more check of the yard. His blood pounded in his ears.
Blood. That was the problem. He gazed at the stain where Chip had fallen. Bleach might take it out of the wood, but it would ruin the rug. He’d drag it to the barn.
He cracked the door. The branches on the apple tree waved as the winds picked up. He had to hurry. He rushed to the kitchen and grabbed twine from the pantry, then to the living room and stumbled. Bill is gone. Larson took him into custody.
He raised his hand to his throat where Bill’s fingers had squeezed. Branches rustled against the house, but he opened the door to make sure.
It’s only the wind.
He fumbled with the twine, his fingers slow and jerky, but he got the rug rolled and tied. The wind whipped through the branches now. A loud crack, and a branch flew across the yard. Pinecones hit the porch and sides of the house.
Nothing would stop him from getting this rug out of the house. He braced his shoulders and dragged the carpet to the front door. At least blood hadn’t soaked through to the floor.
A gust hit the house, the wind a steady roar. He grabbed the house keys and locked the door. Gripping one end of the rug, he dragged it to the barn. It was like dragging a body. Don’t go there.
The wind pushed against him, and the sting of fir needles made him squint. He had to get this done. Quick.
He dropped the rug by the barn door. The force of the wind blew branches and debris against the barn and house in bursts. A gust blew him to the house, and he scrambled up the porch steps. He fumbled to unlock the door, and it flew open. He used all his strength to press it closed. The wind roared as he slid the dead bolt. His ears pounded with the effort. He peered over the plywood on the living room window to see dark clouds billowing in the sky. Where could Dad be?
He raced to the kitchen, where the windows were not broken. Fir trees in the distance bent and swayed like tall grass. This was a repeat of the last storm.
The wind rumbled, and he dashed for the basement. Déjà vu. Dad had found shelter, right? Josh threw a piece of wood on the fire and sank into the chair, alone again.