They got the supplies divided, added things from the shelving, and Carol loaded everything into her car to take to their respective houses. Customers came and went, enough that Sela stayed busy, and none of them looked worried or said anything about an imminent disaster. Carol returned, and went into the office to watch TV while Sela puttered around cleaning, straightening, waiting on customers. The old-fashioned Kitty-Cat clock on the wall, which she kept because she liked the swinging tail, clicked past one p.m. Surely if anything was going to happen whoever was in charge of getting out the warning would have gotten it done already.
With every passing second her doubt grew stronger, and she began feeling more and more like a gullible fool. Word should be getting out—if there was any word—around the world. Astronomers would know, NOAA would know and might even have it up on their website, in which case Twitter and all the other social media platforms should be exploding with the news . . . if there was any news. If, if, if! Maybe she should go to the NOAA site herself and see if anything was there—
The store was empty of customers and she was just reaching for her phone when it sounded a high-pitched alarm, like that for violent storms. She jumped and automatically turned to look out the window, just as she had when Jernigan had first mentioned an emergency, but the sky was still a beautiful September clear blue. There wasn’t a cloud in sight.
Her mind raced with other possibilities. It could be an Amber Alert, or a monthly test. There were plenty of options, but her heart was suddenly pounding and she knew damn well it wasn’t any of the usual emergencies that caused the alarm. From the office, where Carol was watching TV, she heard Carol’s cell phone start bleating its own alert and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
She grabbed the phone from beneath the counter and there it was on the screen, the alert she had both doubted and expected. She and Carol both got their alerts via Sevier County’s CodeRED system, so she knew Carol was reading the same thing: NOAA ALERT GEOMAGNETIC STORM K-INDEX 9 PREDICTED 3PM TOMORROW. PREPARE FOR EXTENDED POWER AND COMMUNICATION DISRUPTION.
Another alert, another message flashing on the screen: THIS IS NOT A TEST. REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A TEST.
Carol came out of the office, clutching her phone, her eyes wide. “Shit,” she said softly.
Sela’s mouth was abruptly dry and she tried to swallow. She leaned against the counter. “Double shit.”
“I take it back about the Spam.”
Twenty-four hours. They had approximately twenty-four hours in which to prepare, which meant Jernigan had been right not only about the danger but about the timing. Good God. What could they possibly do in just twenty-four hours that would get them through an “extended power disruption”? They needed months to get ready for something like this.
“Looks like you were right to listen to Jernigan,” Carol added. Her eyes looked a little wild, and her face had lost color. “Holy moly. But—they could be wrong, couldn’t they? I mean, it could be like the big thunderstorms or ice storms they predict that never happen. We could dodge a bullet, isn’t that what the weathermen always say when they’re wrong?”
“I don’t think a geomagnetic storm is like Earth weather, where a system can slow down or break apart.” She wished that could happen, but she wasn’t going to bet her life—or Carol’s and Olivia’s lives—on it. Her stomach clenched as she was overwhelmed by a sense of urgency, an adrenaline shock as her primitive survival instincts kicked in. Thank God, despite her doubts, she’d gone to the bank and the grocery store before everyone else knew what was going on. “Think! What else do we need to do to prepare?”
Carol just gave her a blank look. “I thought we were already prepared.”
“We’re a little better off than a lot of people, thanks to Jernigan. We have food. But what about wood for the fireplaces for this winter, what about oil for lamps? I meant to get oil and forgot. I picked up some candles, some batteries. If this goes on for a year or more—”
“A year!” Carol looked horrified. “You don’t think—that isn’t possible, is it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think anybody knows.” Except maybe Ben Jernigan, who was more likely to have a better idea than anyone else she knew.