had solar panels to protect; his ham radio would be worthless for a while after the CME hit because the atmospherics would be fucked, but he needed to protect some of the components so they’d work when the atmosphere did settle down; he also had to protect his generator and get it topped off with propane, get extra gas for his truck and ATV.
There was no way to get enough gas to last for the duration. This wasn’t going to be a short-term event. Both the corporate side and the government side had had their heads in the sand for decades, opting to do nothing because of the cost and gambling that a catastrophic solar storm wouldn’t hit Earth, at least on their watch. Some of them had just run out of luck. The sun called the shots, and the sun had just lobbed the energy equivalent of thousands of nuclear weapons at them—no explosions, but enormous damage.
The people who were paid to think of events like this and the likely outcomes had predicted that the worldwide mortality rate would be at ninety percent by the end of the first year. Ben didn’t think it would be that bad, because people were more resourceful than government entities gave them credit for being.
There wasn’t much he could do right now, with dawn still hours away. On the other hand, neither could he go back to sleep. He went to the kitchen and made himself some coffee, then checked the thermal signatures on his security setup to see if any bears were wandering around in his yard, or even on the wraparound porch. Bear encounters here in the east Tennessee mountains were a fact of life, and he gave the bears the right of way.
There were a few small signatures, birds and what was probably a raccoon, but nothing bear-sized. He took his can of bear spray, a pistol loaded with shotgun pellets, and his coffee cup out on the porch looking out over the valley. Just because there wasn’t a bear now didn’t mean one wouldn’t come along. Settling in a rocking chair and propping his booted feet on the porch railing, he sipped the coffee and looked out over the twinkling lights of Wears Valley, far below.
He’d lived here almost two years now; a military buddy from this area had steered Ben to the mountains, and though he’d initially thought about maybe building a small cabin tucked away in the mountains, when he’d seen this place he’d put in an immediate offer. It was larger than he’d planned, but the location was ideal, situated high on the side of Cove Mountain. The rudimentary driveway leading up to it was steep, impassable to regular cars, and even most pickup trucks couldn’t make it unless they were jacked high enough to clear the big rock Ben had moved into the middle of the driveway as another deterrent. He could have put a chain across the driveway but then he’d have had to get out and unlock it every time he came and went, and for the most part he’d just be making things tougher on himself. Not many people ventured up here.
He liked being alone. He was more content this way. After years of combat and dealing with bureaucrats who didn’t know their asses from a hole in the ground but were nevertheless in charge of life-and-death decisions concerning him and his men, he was done. He got out, and now he just wanted to be left the hell alone.
That meant he never let down his guard. He had a top-notch security system, monitors, alarms; he was serious about keeping people at a distance. A couple of times some nosy neighbors—or tourists, and he didn’t know the difference because he didn’t know any of his neighbors, if someone who lived over a mile away could be called a “neighbor”—had hiked all the way up here. His motion alarm had alerted him the moment they cleared the curve and set foot on the wide, flat area where his house sat, and he’d stepped out on the porch with his shotgun broken open and draped over his arm. Neither time had he had to say a word; just the sight of a big, muscular man with a dark scowl on his face and a shotgun in his hands was enough to send the trespassers the hell off his property.
Sitting here on his porch in the predawn darkness, listening to the nightbirds, the rustling of