First Light

CHAPTER FIVE

The drive home had been nerve-wracking. The six-lanes seemed packed with road ragers, even by Charlotte standards. Rachel had found herself squinting through the windshield up at the bright sky above, but the sun seemed its usual angry late-summer self.

Finally home, Rachel made a cup of chamomile tea. She punched up some Death Cab for Cutie on her iPod and lodged an ear bud in one ear, then flopped on the couch with a paperback copy of a Stephen King thriller. The walls of her efficiency apartment were paper thin, and she could hear Fox News blasting from her neighbor’s television set.

Rachel was about to plug in the second ear bud in an attempt to block out the bombast, but she heard the words “solar flare” and shut down her iPod. Moving to the wall, she cocked her head, feeling a little like a snoop but rationalizing her actions as scientific curiosity.

“Solar activity has been associated not only with localized power outages, but also a rise in aggressive behavior. Republican leaders in Washington have been calling on the president to address the situation, but so far the White House is mum. Let’s go to Landry Wallace at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta for a special report on the behavioral changes. Landry?”

Wallace delivered a staccato rant that made little sense. Rachel had difficulty following it. She was too poor to afford cable, and she would never have voluntarily watched the news even if she were plugged into what her grandfather Franklin called “the Idiot Grid.” However, at one point during Wallace’s interview with a CDC official, she heard him refer to “Zapheads,” the nickname given to those affected by the heightened solar activity.

Rachel decided to browse the Internet for more developments, but a knock interrupted her. Only one person would drop by without phoning first.

“Mira,” Rachel said, welcoming her friend into the apartment.

“I smell chamomile.” Mira was a tall, dark-haired Filipino whom Rachel had met in the complex’s laundry room. They borrowed sweaters, earrings, and belts from one another to expand their wardrobes on the cheap, although Mira sported fashion far more elegantly than Rachel did.

“Want a cup? Only cost you a buck.”

Mira pretended to dig in the pocket of her jeans and came up with an empty palm. “Put it on my tab.”

Going to the little counter that comprised the kitchen, Rachel said, “Did you hear this crazy stuff about the solar storm?”

“Yeah. Sounds like some people are getting heat stroke or something. I saw the cops take down a skateboarder on the street outside. He was punching away while five of them wrestled him to the ground.”

“What did he do wrong?”

“Some lady downstairs said he busted a plate glass window and attacked a mannequin.”

“That’s weird. They don’t even have real mannequins anymore, except those real creepy ones in Old Navy. Most of them don’t even have heads.”

“Zapheads,” Mira said. “That’s what they are calling them. It’s like some kind of psychological condition. A stress thing.”

“Cool. If it keeps up, maybe the state will boost funding for counselors.”

“Nah. Cops are cheaper.”

They settled onto the couch with their tea. Rachel glanced at her iPod. The screen was blank.

Weird. I left the music running.

She picked it up and tapped the glass screen. Nothing happened.

“What, you got a text?” Mira asked. “A hot date?”

“Like there could be any other kind of date in this weather.”

“When you get a job, you can move into a place with air conditioning.” Mira motioned at the box fan perched in the room’s lone window, above Rachel’s bed. “Or marry a guy from Alaska.”

Rachel frowned at the iPod and put it back down on the coffee table. She hoped it wasn’t broken. Her mother had given it to her as a graduation present. “I’m not really marriage material.”

“You’ve just got to find the right man. Or right woman.”

“You know I only believe in Biblical marriage.”

“Which one is that? King David’s first, where you trade the foreskins of 200 Philistines for a bride, or his other seventeen marriages?”

“Don’t get literal on me.”

Mira shrugged. “I’m not the one worried about my eternal soul.”

Mira’s father had been a steward for a cruise line, diligently saving money so his family could afford to live in the United States. Having been an American for most of her twenty-four years, she had eagerly adopted the country’s lax morality, although Rachel had educated her in the more conservative ways of the Bible Belt. The playful tension over their respective spiritual beliefs had proven to be a centerpiece of their relationship.

“Well, Judgment Day may come sooner than you think,” Rachel said, although she had never gleaned much sensible prophecy from the Book of Revelation. In some chapters, the sun went black, and in others, it fell into the sea. Her grandfather believed most of the Bible’s prophecies were written by schizophrenics. “In a complex problem, the simplest answer is usually the right one,” he’d once said to her.

“You know what they say about doomsayers,” Mira fired back. “Even if they turn out to be right, they’re still assholes.”

“You’re starting to sound like my grandfather.”

“Who must be a truly fascinating wacko, from what you’ve told me.”

“You’re only insane until the majority comes to see your point of view,” Rachel said. “Maybe we can go visit him in the mountains. If we can find him.”

“Bet it’s nice and cool up there right now while we’re baking away here in the city.”

All Rachel knew of his location was his cryptic references to “Milepost 291” on the Blue Ridge Parkway. In typical Franklin Wheeler fashion, he’d made her promise to commit the name to memory and never tell another soul. Given the persecution and harassment he’d faced for his loudly libertarian beliefs, she understood his paranoia and his desire to slip off the grid and away from the spotlight.

Mira pulled her cell from her blouse pocket. “Dang.”

“What is it?”

“Stevie was supposed to call.”

“Getting stood up again?”

“We’re just hanging out, not dating.”

“What does that mean? Sex without having to say you’re sorry?”

Mira ignored the jab. “No bars,” she said, tapping her phone.

“That’s weird. There are towers all over the place. You have to drive half a day to find a dead spot.”

“Maybe it’s that solar thing. I’ve still got power, just no signal.”

“I read that communications might be interrupted,” Rachel said. “Also supposed to have some static on the radio and TV.”

“Well, ain’t nobody got time for that.”

“The worst is supposed to be over by tomorrow. Something about the sun rotating away from the earth so the solar flares spew out to the far side of the solar system.”

Mira finished her tea and carried the cup to the tiny sink. “Well, you just enjoy the sunset alone. I’m going to track down Stevie.”