But the trigger of the M&P was set light, much lighter than he’d remembered since the last time he’d taken target practice with it. Instead of whistling over the addict’s head and hitting the roof of the gas station with a satisfying warning thud, it sliced through the cartilage of the guy’s left ear.
The meth head howled in pain, dropping the crowbar and cupping a hand to his ear, which released a healthy spray of blood. The couple in the doorway screamed, the meth head whimpered, and Brady resorted to his go-to curse yet again, only this time low, under his breath, meant only for himself.
“Motherfucker.”
The next twenty minutes were among the most awkward he could remember. The three homeless kids, because that’s what they were—drug habits and horrible decision-making aside, they were practically still children—dissolved quickly into apology, remorse, and fear. Brady helped bandage up the older guy’s ear as best he could, cautioned them about the situation that was rapidly unfolding around the world, invited them to remain at the refueling station as long as they needed, and stressed the importance of never, ever raising a crowbar to him again. He vowed to check on them on his way back home, and he meant it.
“What the fuck is going on out there?” one of them asked. “Like, rioting and looting and shit?”
“Not yet, but I’d imagine there will be. Anybody who says they know anything for sure is lying. Get used to not knowing. For a long while.”
Half an hour later, he was back in the BMW, now fully gassed up, and was mentally tearing himself a new one. He had lurched, weaponless, into an unfamiliar and potentially hostile environment, he had shot and wounded someone he’d only intended to frighten, and he’d suffered several needless injuries.
They were less than twenty-four hours into the start of the crisis. He’d better sharpen up his fucking game right now or he wouldn’t live to see how it ended.
12.
Aurora
On Cayuga Lane, things were quiet at first. The night of the event, as they stood under the strange and wonderful sky, Aubrey and her neighbors had greeted each other in a way they hadn’t in several years. They learned or were reminded of first names, shared shaky smiles at the compelling oddness of it all, and, nearly to a person, clung to the belief that it would be over in two, three, maybe five days at the most.
The second day, things got more real. Aubrey heard sirens in the distance almost constantly. She tried to tell herself they were utility trucks racing to the scene of the damage, super-competent men and women who’d have things fixed up in no time, but in her heart, she knew what the wailing horns really meant. Panic. Chaos.
On night two, the northern lights were visible again, the streaks and billowing shapes every bit as vibrant and oddly colored as at first occurrence. Whatever weird electrical shroud had taken up residence in the earth’s atmosphere had dissipated not even a little bit on night two, nor would it on the third night. That first night, every man, woman, and child on the block had come out to look at them, but by night three it was down to just Norman, the astronomer, and Phil, the pothead. Phil was out every night, lying on his front lawn, arms folded into a pillow beneath his head and staring up at the sky, occasionally exhaling a puff of smoke.
Thom had been right about another thing—the contents of Aubrey’s freezer did not spoil as quickly as she’d feared. She’d gone to cook the meat the next day, but her stove was electric, so that was out of the question. She’d tossed all the meat out before it could rot and ruin everything else. It had not yet occurred to her that garbage pickup might soon be a thing of the past, so at the moment it was stinking up the big plastic trash can in her driveway. The rest of the stuff in the freezer was intact, but it wouldn’t last more than seven or eight days comfortably, and three weeks uncomfortably. If they ate those goddamn black beans. After that, she had no plans.
The morning of day three, Aubrey had noticed Phil boarding up what looked to be a broken window on the half-sunken basement level of his house. She hadn’t gone over to ask, but she’d wandered into the street, close enough to hear him talking with Derek and Janelle, who lived next door. Apparently, there had been a breakin on the second night, and why they’d picked Phil’s unassuming house was as big a mystery to him as it was to them. Nothing much was missing, he said, they’d mostly just ransacked the basement, but he’d startled them in the act and had a black eye to show for it. He was actually grateful for the lack of power, as he’d been able to scurry away in the darkness of his house and hide until the burglars were gone.