Walking in the Rain (Book 4): Dark Sky Thunder by William Allen Page B
Authors: William Allen
Tags: post apocalyptic
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there with the Lord’s Prayer on my lips, I heard Uncle Billy break down into soft sobs.
I didn’t cry. I wanted to, I think, but I couldn’t. Maybe all my tears had been used up. I did feel a powerful urge to go kill something. I was standing there feeling sorry for myself and suddenly I felt the urge to talk with Paige again.
As we rode back in silence, I took Amy’s hand in mine and caught her eye with my own. “You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m all right. Just got to thinking about my folks. I got them buried but didn’t think to put up a grave marker over them. I was in too much of a hurry, in case those thieving assholes were coming back.”
Well, shit. That put my loss in perspective, I guess. What was that old saying? I cried because I had no shoes until I saw a man who had no feet. Amy never talked about her family, and I hoped her new openness would allow her some peace for what she has endured.
“When this shit all settles down, we can go back. Put up a headstone, and all, for your parents. And make sure your uncle’s really dead.” I whispered this to Amy and that last bit got a snort that was almost a laugh.
“You are a caution, Lucas Messner,” was all she said out loud, but it was enough. Even Uncle Billy managed a chuckle at that declaration.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
The next day started early, like always on the ranch. After breakfast and the inevitable morning chores were done, Dad announced his plan to open up the rest of the shelter area for additional sleeping accommodations. With our new numbers, this was a logical choice, and Mom agreed that moving the untrained women and children into the bunkrooms “under the hill” made sense.
“Under the hill?” Amy had asked as we discussed the matter the night before.
“Yeah,” I admitted sheepishly. “That’s what Paige and I started calling the shelter space built into the hill. It sounded way cooler when I was twelve.”
Amy accepted this bit of information with a shrug. I think she already suspected there was more to the house than we talked about in public.
So Dad and Mom led the newcomers on a tour of the two floors of paranoid perfection. The upper level was built at the same elevation as the rest of the house and boasted four separate bunk rooms, each with eight sets of doubled bunk beds bolted to the walls and an equal number of sealed storage chambers. There was a kitchenette, a library, communications shack, and a small first aid station, all concealed behind a fake closet and then a Swiss blast door. Except for the blast doors, everything else was something either purchased second hand, at auction, or reclaimed from the scrap heap.
With ten-foot ceilings and brightly painted walls, the space was not as claustrophobic as one might think with the lack of windows. In contrast, the second, lower level was more utilitarian, and Dad only gave a cursory walkthrough of the mechanical spaces housing the two backup generators, a twelve-hundred-gallon water tank, the sewer pump tied into the septic system, and another armory containing our black powder weapons and spare reloading supplies.
He didn’t mention the emergency escape tunnel secreted in one of the narrow chambers, filled with spare solar gear. Dad had gotten a good deal on the 300-watt panels by buying in bulk, and we had two complete sets of replacement panels, inverters, and dry batteries all waiting in reserve. I don’t know how much he paid, but I’d overheard Mom saying that he’d blown the equivalent of my college tuition on alternate power strategies.
Since their parents maintained a shelter in the basement of their home, none of the Thompson kids gave the concealed spaces a second thought except to compliment their hosts on the accommodations. Connie and Helena, along with little Rachel and Kevin, were flabbergasted. Okay, the adults seemed gobsmacked while the kids just thought it was “supercool” to have a secret hideout.
“But why would you build such a
I didn’t cry. I wanted to, I think, but I couldn’t. Maybe all my tears had been used up. I did feel a powerful urge to go kill something. I was standing there feeling sorry for myself and suddenly I felt the urge to talk with Paige again.
As we rode back in silence, I took Amy’s hand in mine and caught her eye with my own. “You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m all right. Just got to thinking about my folks. I got them buried but didn’t think to put up a grave marker over them. I was in too much of a hurry, in case those thieving assholes were coming back.”
Well, shit. That put my loss in perspective, I guess. What was that old saying? I cried because I had no shoes until I saw a man who had no feet. Amy never talked about her family, and I hoped her new openness would allow her some peace for what she has endured.
“When this shit all settles down, we can go back. Put up a headstone, and all, for your parents. And make sure your uncle’s really dead.” I whispered this to Amy and that last bit got a snort that was almost a laugh.
“You are a caution, Lucas Messner,” was all she said out loud, but it was enough. Even Uncle Billy managed a chuckle at that declaration.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
The next day started early, like always on the ranch. After breakfast and the inevitable morning chores were done, Dad announced his plan to open up the rest of the shelter area for additional sleeping accommodations. With our new numbers, this was a logical choice, and Mom agreed that moving the untrained women and children into the bunkrooms “under the hill” made sense.
“Under the hill?” Amy had asked as we discussed the matter the night before.
“Yeah,” I admitted sheepishly. “That’s what Paige and I started calling the shelter space built into the hill. It sounded way cooler when I was twelve.”
Amy accepted this bit of information with a shrug. I think she already suspected there was more to the house than we talked about in public.
So Dad and Mom led the newcomers on a tour of the two floors of paranoid perfection. The upper level was built at the same elevation as the rest of the house and boasted four separate bunk rooms, each with eight sets of doubled bunk beds bolted to the walls and an equal number of sealed storage chambers. There was a kitchenette, a library, communications shack, and a small first aid station, all concealed behind a fake closet and then a Swiss blast door. Except for the blast doors, everything else was something either purchased second hand, at auction, or reclaimed from the scrap heap.
With ten-foot ceilings and brightly painted walls, the space was not as claustrophobic as one might think with the lack of windows. In contrast, the second, lower level was more utilitarian, and Dad only gave a cursory walkthrough of the mechanical spaces housing the two backup generators, a twelve-hundred-gallon water tank, the sewer pump tied into the septic system, and another armory containing our black powder weapons and spare reloading supplies.
He didn’t mention the emergency escape tunnel secreted in one of the narrow chambers, filled with spare solar gear. Dad had gotten a good deal on the 300-watt panels by buying in bulk, and we had two complete sets of replacement panels, inverters, and dry batteries all waiting in reserve. I don’t know how much he paid, but I’d overheard Mom saying that he’d blown the equivalent of my college tuition on alternate power strategies.
Since their parents maintained a shelter in the basement of their home, none of the Thompson kids gave the concealed spaces a second thought except to compliment their hosts on the accommodations. Connie and Helena, along with little Rachel and Kevin, were flabbergasted. Okay, the adults seemed gobsmacked while the kids just thought it was “supercool” to have a secret hideout.
“But why would you build such a
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