Story Sandy Shoals

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Blake descended into the cool basement and lifted the rattan backpack from its hook. He had bought it at a flea market a couple of years earlier, drawn to its rugged, old-world look and sturdy woven construction that promised durability on rough trails. It had hung unused ever since, waiting for a purpose. From the orderly shelves he selected a couple of pints of golden honey, a quart of his garlic-dill “whiskey pickles”—actually cured in 148-proof vodka for that sharp, penetrating kick—a pint of tangy pickle relish, a pint of rich blackberry jam, and a quart of sorghum syrup he’d picked up down in Muddy Pond. He wrapped each jar carefully in leftover jute fiber, the same rough material that covered the walls of his office for a touch of rustic insulation and sound dampening. Then he nestled them securely in the pack. Last in went a fourteen-ounce can of Prince Albert pipe tobacco, its familiar red tin gleaming under the basement light.

Robert lived about a mile west of Uncle Joe’s on an old homestead he had let go to seed after building his cabin deeper in the ravine. He still paid the taxes every year to keep the state from claiming the land for the state forest expansion. His pickup stayed parked in a shed at Uncle Joe’s, ready for town runs when groceries or supplies called. Blake parked in a cutoff on Uncle Joe’s property, shouldered the backpack, and set off toward Robert’s place. He didn’t need a GPS; he navigated by terrain association—limestone outcrops, familiar hollows, and the subtle bend of the branch—deliberately varying his route each time so he wouldn’t wear a visible trail that might draw unwanted eyes in uncertain times.

Robert was already at his woodpile, working a twenty-four-inch folding bow saw through a length of oak with steady, practiced strokes. The rhythmic rasp echoed softly in the hollow.

“It’s too warm down here to be building a fire!” Blake called out, his voice carrying on the light breeze.

Robert straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with a gloved hand, a broad grin splitting his weathered face. “It’s right nice in this hollow, ain’t it? Feels like its own little climate zone. Can be frost nipping at the rim up top, but down here I’m comfortable in nothing but a long-sleeve T-shirt.”

“I brought you a few things,” Blake said, setting the pack on the limestone stoop that served as Robert’s porch.

“That was right neighborly.” Robert untied the leather lace closure, lifted the lid, and immediately pulled out the tobacco can. His grin widened, eyes lighting up. “I sure appreciate this. Was fixing to head into town Saturday for more. Pipe’s been running low.”

“You still can. Even sealed, I like to rotate stock now and then—keeps everything fresh and ready.”

Robert kept digging through the pack and let out a pleased whistle when he found the sorghum. “Whoa! Biscuits in the morning for sure. Nothing beats fresh sorghum on hot biscuits with a dab of butter.”

“You said Bascom built you a new spring box?” Blake asked, shifting the conversation to practical matters.

“Yeah! Come look.” Robert led him along a worn path to the spring house, unbarred the heavy door, and swung it wide so natural light poured in. He pointed proudly at the new galvanized box, its clean lines a testament to solid craftsmanship. “He even put in shelves for my crocks and butter. When a milk jug gets low, it likes to float, so I just move it up a level—still submerged in the cold water, stays perfect for days.”

Four blocks of Walmart Good Value butter sat on one shelf: two one-pound blocks and two boxes of sticks, their wrappers crisp in the chill air.

“That’s a good setup,” Blake said, nodding appreciatively. “He did solid work. That galvanized steel should hold up well against the humidity.”

“What do you do about meat?” Blake asked, glancing around the efficient space.

“Short-term, I keep it on the shelf when I bring it from the store—use it up quick before it turns. Deer, I hang next door where it’s cooler and let it age properly. When I built this, I ran an iron discharge pipe snake-like under the stone floor. Keeps the air circulating cool and drier so the meat doesn’t get that damp chill that spoils things fast. Water runs on down to the branch below. I hang my bacon in there too—smokes nice later.”

“You’ve got a real nice operation here,” Blake said, impressed by the thoughtful self-sufficiency.

“It suits me just fine. Simple, reliable, and off the grid enough for my tastes.”

“Well, I’d best head back,” Blake said, turning toward the door.

“Wait—don’t forget your pack,” Robert laughed, handing it over. “You get the itch to visit, fill it up and come on back anytime. Door’s always open for good neighbors.”

“I’ll do that. You ought to be good to be seen around again. I think the Ross boys got their comeuppance.”

“Yeah… reckon I’ll need a haircut soon before I head to town.”

Blake made his way back to the truck, offsetting his route and watching where he stepped to leave minimal trace. It was a fine morning—sun bright overhead, breeze light and carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, just cool enough that the walk felt refreshing rather than tiring. The exercise cleared his head, reminding him why he loved this life of quiet independence amid the larger uncertainties.

He stopped at the café for a couple of ham biscuits and a cup of strong black coffee, savoring the simple comfort, then continued down to the boat slip. Will was working through the gear boxes, straightening life preservers and checking equipment for rust with meticulous care. Any spot he found got a thorough polish with coarse steel wool followed by a coat of Corrosion-X. It was rare work these days; Will kept everything shipshape, a habit honed from years on the water and a deep sense of responsibility.

Brooke called while Blake was still at the slip. She was picking Vivian up after school and they were heading over to Magnet Cove to hunt for aragonite crystals. “Should be a fun adventure for her,” Brooke said, excitement clear in her voice. Blake told her to enjoy it and that he would start supper, already thinking through the meal.

He finally drifted home and got to work in the kitchen. He carved several thick steaks from a smoked pork shoulder, the rich, hickory-kissed aroma filling the air. While the potatoes peeled and sliced easily under his knife, he layered them in a casserole dish with shredded cheese. He mixed a packet of heavy cream powder with water, whisked up a simple cheese sauce thickened just right, seasoned everything with salt, pepper, and a touch of paprika for depth, then scattered cornflake crumbs on top before sliding it into the oven. Next he pulled out a bag of broccoli florets and the steamer, then set his largest skillet on the stove for the ham and pineapple rings later. He peeled and sliced apples, tossed them with lemon juice to keep them bright and prevent browning, and set them aside. Stale bread went into the toaster oven, then got broken into pieces in a greased casserole dish. He layered the apples over the bread, sprinkled generously with cinnamon sugar, and poured a melted stick of butter across everything for that perfect glossy finish. After whipping up a packet of Dream Whip and sliding the bowl into the fridge to set, he covered the Brown Betty with foil and put it in the second oven. He would wait until Brooke and Vivian were nearly home before frying the ham and pineapple and steaming the broccoli to keep everything hot and vibrant.

Blake’s birthday meant little to him—just another year older, another reminder of time slipping by in a world that demanded constant vigilance and preparedness. To Brooke and Vivian, though, it meant everything. As the date drew closer, their days filled with whispered conversations and secretive glances. The two scoured for the perfect gift, watching Blake for any clue about what he might truly want. Then Vivian flipped through the dog-eared copies of Classic Motorsports and Collectible Automobile in the magazine rack beside his chair. Nearly every marked page featured an article on classic International Harvester Scouts—the boxy, capable 4x4s that embodied rugged utility and self-reliance. They had their target.

Brooke tapped her network of past customers and tracked down her husband’s dream vehicle near Wrightsville, Arkansas. The town itself carried a quiet weight of history—once home to the Arkansas Negro Boys’ Industrial School, where a tragic 1959 dormitory fire had claimed twenty-one young lives. The site later became part of the state prison system, but for Brooke, its relevance was a local restorer named Benton Hughes. He had transformed a 1975 International Scout II 4x4 into a capable restomod, blending heritage with modern reliability for the backroads and trails they loved.

The price stung—close to what a fully optioned Tesla Cyberbeast would cost—but Brooke didn’t hesitate. This was the gift she and Vivian would give Blake. They framed it as a “ladies’ shopping day” in Little Rock, checkbook in hand, hearts full of anticipation.

It was more restomod than pure restoration. Hughes had fitted a robust diesel engine—the largest that would squeeze into the engine well—for better torque and efficiency on rural roads, along with wheel-well extensions, aggressive all-terrain tires suited for Arkansas mud and gravel, and a premium NILIGHT light bar for night runs or security needs. A new stereo rounded out the upgrades. Brooke loved the beige paint and the fresh-car scent inside. She insisted on an independent mechanic’s inspection—Hughes himself encouraged it—and the report came back glowing with praise for the frame, drivetrain, and upgrades. She wrote the check on the spot, adding extra for careful delivery on Blake’s birthday.

While in Little Rock, they shopped for clothes and stopped at an auto-parts store. Vivian picked out a full set of WeatherTech mats and coordinating accessories as her personal contribution. Brooke paid, but the mats would be from their daughter, a thoughtful touch that warmed her heart and strengthened their family bond.

A few days earlier, Henry Broyles had called Blake about four straight eighteen-inch red cedars he’d cleared from some land. Blake jumped at the offer. He used cedar wherever he could—especially for shakes or shingles—and Brooke had been dropping hints about lining their closet with it for its natural moth-repelling aroma and durability against humidity.
 
I owned a 72 Scout in my early 20s, I wish I had back it was an off-road beast, I sold it to a local business owner that passed it down to his son when he died and he's not interested in selling it, though he never drives it he said his dad really loved that old truck, and couldn't imagine ever letting it go.
 
Chapter Twenty-Eight


Saturday morning, Blake met Henry at the edge of the old woodlot. The air carried the sharp tang of pine resin and damp earth, the kind of scent that rooted a man in place. He hated cutting trees that had stood since the ancestors first settled this corner of Arkansas. These oaks and hickories had shaded generations of Johnsons and their neighbors through good years and lean ones, through wars and floods and the long quiet stretches in between. But Henry needed the ground cleared for pasture, and Blake respected a man’s plan for his own land.

He worked methodically, felling each tree with care. The chainsaw’s growl echoed off the surrounding ridges as he made precise cuts, notching the lean and guiding the fall away from younger growth. Once down, he limbed the trunks clean, the rhythmic swing of the axe a meditation. Then he bucked the logs into ten-foot lengths—manageable for milling or transport. Options mattered out here. He could run them through the Wood-Mizer sawmill for lumber to frame a new shed or barn addition. Or he could set the blade for twenty-four-, eighteen-, or sixteen-inch shingles. His grandpa had drilled the old distinction into him years ago while Blake pounded out oak shakes from a splitting block: hand-split were shakes; saw-cut were shingles. These days the mill did the precise work with far less sweat and far fewer smashed thumbs, but Blake still felt the pull of the old ways.

He wiped sweat from his brow and called his cousin Ted Johnson. The log truck would haul the good timber away, turning potential waste into cash or traded favors. Ted promised to swing by before noon. Back at Sandy Shoals, Blake cleaned sap from the saw chain with turpentine and a rag, tidied the shop, and re-hung tools in their proper places. The familiar routines settled him, but his mind kept drifting. Brooke and Vivian had been acting strangely lately—whispers, sudden silences when he entered a room, shared glances that vanished too quickly. His birthday was only a couple of weeks away. He hoped they weren’t planning anything elaborate. He’d just as soon let the day pass quietly, focused on the rhythms of lakeside life and the small satisfactions it brought: strong coffee at dawn, the weight of a well-used tool in his hand, and evenings on the porch watching the sky fade over the lake.

A short drive took him past the Complex, where Dale was gearing up for summer. Fresh displays filled the aisles, clearance tags hung on last season’s inventory, and a lineup of local lure makers had set up a table showcasing new trout flies. Fishing pressure was already building below Blakely Dam. Rainbow trout would school up before the summer heat pushed them deeper into cooler water. Blake planned to get in on that action himself, maybe with a new setup from the Complex to share with Vivian. The girl had taken to fishing with a quiet intensity that reminded him of his own boyhood.

The wine shop, gun store, and country store had coordinated their efforts for the same weekend. Jeb Wilson teamed up with the ladies’ craft circles, bringing in crocheted doilies, beeswax candles scented with local herbs, and more. Doug Jackson planned to discount slow-movers and introduce fresh inventory—everything from ammunition to hand tools. Camilia was already stocking up on food staples at the café, while the Complex’s advertisers printed bright posters announcing the big Spring Sale. The whole community hub buzzed with anticipation. It felt good, this resilient network they were building together. In uncertain times, neighbors who could trade skills, goods, and trust mattered more than distant promises from faraway capitals.

Later that week, Brooke finally clued him in with a conspiratorial smile. “Just a small birthday gathering with friends and family,” she said, squeezing his hand. Blake had no idea how many people she had actually invited. Camilia would handle the food; all he had to do was drink a beer, swap stories, and enjoy whatever landed on his plate. He nodded, secretly pleased despite his protests.

On the morning of his birthday—which fell on a Saturday—Blake started the coffee maker out of habit. Brooke shooed him to the couch. “Go watch the weather channel or Fox News. I’ve got this.” She made his favorite: chipped dried beef gravy over fluffy biscuits, two eggs over easy, all served on the heavy stoneware platter with plenty of room for seconds. The rich, savory aroma filled the kitchen. He nearly felt guilty polishing off the generous plate, wondering if he’d have room for the afternoon meal. But that wasn’t until two o’clock; he’d manage.

Afterward, Brooke sent him off to occupy himself. Blake headed to the shop and used his grandfather’s broadaxe and carving axe to finish hewing an oak beam he’d been saving. The satisfying heft of the tools grounded him in tradition and family legacy. Each measured swing peeled away the rough exterior, revealing straight, workable wood beneath. Chips flew and the scent of fresh oak filled the air. He lost himself in the work, the rhythm steadying his thoughts about the changes life had brought—the new responsibilities of fatherhood to Vivian, the deepening partnership with Brooke, the steady growth of their life at Sandy Shoals.

At noon, Brooke called him in to get ready. Blake put the axes away, swept up the chips, stopped at the well house for a cold drink from the artesian flow—pure and crisp as always—and scraped his boots before heading inside. He showered, and Brooke had laid out khakis, a comfortable pullover shirt, socks, and sneakers. While Blake dressed, Will set up tubs of beer, soft drinks, and water on the back porch. By 1:30, guests started arriving. Will played official greeter, making sure everyone had a drink and lighting the fire pit with well-seasoned oak that crackled warmly.

Blake soon had a beer in hand, chatting with the guys around the flames. Conversations flowed easily from spring planting schedules and soil amendments to recent weather patterns and community preps. Someone mentioned the latest rumors about New Madrid activity farther east, and the group nodded with the quiet seriousness of people who kept their powder dry and their pantries full. At 1:45, Camilia arrived with the food and a couple of helpers, setting up a generous buffet on long tables. The spread was impressive: smoked brisket, fresh salads, casseroles, cornbread, and pies. She whispered something to Brooke before returning to the café.

Guests helped themselves while Blake ate, talked, and nursed another beer by the pit, soaking in the easy camaraderie that defined their tight-knit group. Laughter rose and fell like the smoke from the fire. Vivian darted between clusters of people, her face bright with excitement she tried—and failed—to hide.

Will quietly drove Brooke and Vivian up to the Complex parking lot, where Mr. Hughes waited beside the Scout he had just offloaded from a trailer. They installed the WeatherTech mats and accessories, and Hughes handed over the keys with a proud nod. Vivian climbed into the passenger seat, practically vibrating. They drove slowly back to Sandy Shoals, the diesel engine purring reliably as gravel crunched under the tires.

Blake heard another vehicle arrive and marveled at the growing crowd—fifty people already, filling the yard with laughter and conversation. He tossed his empty paper plate into the fire and stood to grab another beer. Brooke walked up, kissed his cheek, and said, “Happy Birthday!”

Blake grinned. Then she dangled a set of keys in front of him and nodded toward the parking area. In unison, the guests shouted, “Happy Birthday!”

Mouth gaping, Blake stared at the Scout, then back at Brooke and Vivian. Emotion tightened his throat with gratitude. The vehicle sat there like a promise—beige paint gleaming under the afternoon sun, its boxy lines speaking of timeless capability and quiet strength.

“Go on! It’s all yours!” Vivian urged, beaming with pride that made his chest ache in the best way.

He wove through the crowd and down to the parking area. The Scout was beautiful. The odometer showed 185,652 miles, but the interior looked showroom-fresh, with that unmistakable new-vehicle scent mingling with faint traces of oil and leather. He gave it a full walk-around, inspecting the tires, suspension, light bar, and undercarriage with a practiced eye. This had been his quiet dream for years—one he’d never quite pulled the trigger on amid all the homestead priorities: the well, the shop expansions, securing the land, and now raising Vivian. He stepped out and pulled Brooke into a tight hug, holding her close, breathing in the familiar warmth of her.

“Go take your daughter for a test drive,” Brooke said, nudging his shoulder with a smile. “She picked out the mats as her gift.”

Vivian hopped in without hesitation. Blake started the diesel, backed out smoothly, and circled the Complex parking lot to feel the handling. The engine’s torque impressed him on the slight incline, responsive and solid. He glanced over at Vivian, who was grinning ear to ear.

“This is incredible,” he said, voice thick. “You really helped pick this out?”

She nodded vigorously. “Brooke said you looked at pictures in magazines. I found the right color and everything.”

When they parked and climbed out, Brooke asked, “How do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful. How in the world did you know I wanted one?”

“Your daughter searched your magazine rack,” Brooke laughed warmly, pulling Vivian into a side hug.

“Isn’t anything sacred around here?!” Blake protested with a chuckle.

“Not to the people who love you,” Brooke replied softly.

The afternoon stretched on with more stories, more food, and the kind of easy belonging Blake had fought hard to build. As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the yard, he felt a deep contentment. The Scout was more than a truck; it was proof of the life they were forging together—family, community, and the steady work of turning dreams into something real and lasting. He caught Vivian’s eye across the fire and gave her a small salute. She returned it with a proud little grin.

Later, after most guests had gone and the fire burned low, Blake sat on the porch with Brooke and Vivian. The Scout waited in the drive like a faithful new member of the household. He thought of the trees he’d felled that morning—old growth making way for new pasture—and saw the parallel in his own life. Some things had to be cleared to make room for growth. But the roots remained, deep and strong, anchoring them through whatever came next.
 
Chapter Twenty-Nine


Not to be outdone, Blake bought Brooke a brand-new Subaru Outback, complete with that unmistakable new-car smell. Vivian wasted no time slapping a family decal on the rear window: stick-figure parents, a little girl with a halo, and a baby in the fourth spot labeled “Position to be filled” with an arrow pointing right at it.

Blake did a double-take when he spotted it. Brooke just grinned.

“You up for that?” Blake asked.

“Oh, I think I could handle it,” Brooke said, her smile widening.

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Blake replied with a grin.

“It had better be mine too,” Brooke shot back.

Blake returned to his latest obsession: experimenting with the freeze dryer. Dale had just received a fresh shipment of Mountain House meals, and Blake tried their beef stew. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t match his mother’s recipe. He crossed out the turnips—he saw no reason to put them in anything—then combined the ingredients and steps into a proper Irish beef stew. He cut a sirloin roast and vegetables into half-inch cubes, shook the beef in a bag of flour, browned it well, and simmered everything with a generous pour of red wine.⁠

He ladled the cooled stew onto the freeze-dryer trays in an even layer and ran the cycle. Once it was done, he scraped the brittle results off with a spatula and grill scraper, then walked Vivian through the rehydration for dinner. All she had to do was boil three cups of water, pour it over the dried stew, cover for four minutes, stir, add a bit more water for the right consistency, cover again, and let it sit for another nine minutes.⁠

Blake took the first spoonful. The beef was tender, the vegetables had no crunch, and the flavor beat the commercial stuff hands-down. Brooke and Vivian tried it, then helped themselves to full bowls.

“I wouldn’t mind keeping a couple pouches of this in the pantry for quick meals,” Brooke said. “Keep ’em coming, soldier.”

He experimented with other recipes, but the Irish beef stew remained the clear winner.

By the time the Spring Sale rolled around at the Complex, Brooke was showing a noticeable little bulge in her belly—and it wasn’t from taste-testing Blake’s experiments.

Now she had a new deadline: get married while she could still walk down the aisle with dignity. She already had the venue—the Barn at Glazypeau Farms, a dream setting on the other side of Mountain Pine—the pastor from New Home Baptist Church to officiate, and a reliable caterer. Camilia’s cater friend passed Brooke’s standards after a quick taste test of her proposed menu.

Blake mostly stayed out of the planning except when asked for his preferences. He bit back the joke about making the wedding dress out of Spandex so she could still fit into it.

With the wedding approaching, Blake was at Brooke’s beck and call. He talked to Robert and convinced him to take a temporary job helping Will at the slip while Blake was tied up. Robert agreed—not just for the under-the-table pay (he still didn’t fully trust the financial system), but because the old cabin Blake had built years ago was available so he could be closer to the marina. Blake had lived in it a couple of months while practicing log-cabin skills before joining the Army. It sat near a spring, just over the ridge.

Blake drove his pickup to Robert’s old place and parked beside the combat-parked truck behind the rickety barn. He grabbed an empty MOLLE II rucksack and hiked down the trail to the cabin, making plenty of noise as he approached. It wasn’t polite to sneak up on a man’s cabin, and it could get you shot.

Robert was already packing his basic cooking gear into a cargo shelf pack. He pointed to a pile of folded clothes on a bench near the wood stove. Blake set down the ruck and started rolling and packing the clothes as tightly as possible. The exact order didn’t matter; everything would get unpacked into the refinished kitchen larder cupboards Blake had turned into an armoire-style wardrobe.

They loaded up and headed back. Robert’s face lit up when they reached the cabin. Blake had already stocked it with food, and Brooke had repacked many items into airtight canisters to keep the bugs out. A spring house sat right next to the cabin for keeping tea, milk, and other dairy cool. It wasn’t as fancy as Robert’s old setup, but it had its charms—including spring salamanders in the pool.

Blake left the MOLLE pack behind and let Robert settle in. He showed him the tall cupboard in the kitchen where the ham and pork belly hung, and the scuttle hole above the bunk for the toilet paper.

After that, Blake didn’t see much of Robert except up at the slip. Will was teaching him something new every day about the landing craft—operation, maintenance, even letting him pilot the boat. They practiced with the cargo sleds, tying up, setting up rigging, and hauling loads. As the weather warmed, Robert traded his bib overalls for shorts and T-shirts like Will wore.

One evening about two weeks before the wedding, Brooke and Vivian headed off to a combination baby-and-bridal shower (a common Arkansas tradition), leaving Blake on his own for supper. He rustled up Robert, and the two men grilled smoked sausage over the fire pit and cracked open some beers. Blake had opened a fresh jar of pickled jalapeño dices, and mustard and onions were all Robert wanted on his sausages. Robert was probably going to need a cool washcloth before morning.

They swapped military stories, and Blake learned things he hadn’t known about Robert.

Robert had joined the Army right after high school. Trained as a radio operator (Morse Code), his first overseas tour was with the 46th Company, 1st Special Forces Group, southeast of Lopburi, Thailand. They traded plenty of Green Beret tales before Blake asked the key question: “What was the most important thing you learned in SF?”

Robert rinsed the last bite of sausage with a swig of beer. “My first Sergeant Major told me when I arrived at Camp Pawai that you’re only as safe as your dumbest friend.” That stuck with me. We had plenty of people chasing medals back then. Me? I only got the ones I didn’t want—Purple Hearts, merit badges I didn’t think I’d earned. After Vietnam, I figured I was done, but then came 7th Group down in Panama during that pointless war on drugs. Got shot in an ambush, and they chased me around trying to pin a Purple Heart on me. Officers were handing out awards for every little thing. I’ve always been skeptical of credentialism. Just because a guy’s got a degree on the wall doesn’t mean he’s smarter than the youngest Spec Four on the team. They’ve got book learning but no real experience. A lot of those young officers chased promotions through awards and eventually saw the light and resigned. Back then we were scattered like a covey of quail. The battalion commander held award ceremonies on a drop zone just to get enough bodies together. One time I got seven medals—including a Meritorious Service Medal for an op I wasn’t even on. I tried to get it rescinded, but the S-1 clerk said it was too much paperwork and I was PCSing soon anyway. The lieutenant in S-1 told me to just keep it, I didn’t have to wear it.”
 
Chapter Thirty

The Parker Solar Probe caught the first glimpse, then the Solar Terrestrial Relations Observatory and the Swift Space Observatory captured full images. Other assets struggled to detect the asteroid as it barreled in from the direction of the sun. Alarms sounded. Scientists scrambled to calculate the impact zone.

Roughly seven hundred feet across by four hundred fifty feet—about the length of two football fields laid end-to-end—the rogue from the outer solar system was on track to strike near the Bahamas. That put millions at immediate risk across the Caribbean, the U.S. East Coast, West Africa, Western Europe, the Iberian Peninsula, and much of the North Atlantic rim. Megatsunamis would follow. Nations with nuclear capability banded together and agreed to try deflecting it. Their plan: timed nuclear detonations beside the asteroid, not direct hits, to nudge it without shattering it into a deadly shotgun blast of fragments.⁠

The missiles launched. Explosions flared in the void. Little by little, the asteroid’s path shifted—until the back stabbing French hesitated, then refused to launch. Their models now showed the impact zone sliding toward their own territory. The plan collapsed.

In the deep mid-Atlantic, where the North American, Eurasian, and African plates pull apart along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, the Azores Triple Junction had long been a zone of quiet geological drama. Underwater mountains rose as new crust formed. Volcanic islands perched uneasily atop the spreading boundary. The sea hid a web of faults and rifts.

Then, at 09:35 on an ordinary day, the asteroid sliced through the atmosphere at cosmic speed and struck the ocean directly over the triple junction, perhaps a few dozen miles from the western Azores. It would be years before anyone precisely mapped the point of impact.

Traveling at 12–20 kilometers per second, the 700-foot object unleashed an explosion equivalent to hundreds of megatons of TNT—far beyond any human weapon. Seawater flashed to steam in an instant. The already-fractured seabed was pulverized. A crater kilometers wide and deep formed, its transient cavity collapsing and rebounding in a surge of molten rock, superheated water, and debris.

The immediate effects were apocalyptic. A fireball brighter than the sun erupted, visible for hundreds of miles. Shockwaves tore through air and water. On the Azores—home to roughly 236,000 people clustered on São Miguel, Terceira, and the other islands—blast and airburst shattered windows, collapsed buildings, and sparked fires. Coastal communities were leveled or swept away. No survivors remained to describe the first minutes.⁠

Then came the water. The ocean impact displaced an unimaginable volume of seawater, spawning megatsunamis. Waves hundreds of feet high near the site raced outward at jetliner speeds, slamming the Azores with unimaginable force. They scoured lowlands, overtopped cliffs, and carried ships, debris, and sediment far inland. Hours later, the waves—diminished but still devastating—reached the coasts of Europe, Africa, and the Americas, flooding harbors and low-lying areas, erasing the lives of millions of people.

The strike hit at a tectonic weak point, amplifying everything. The immense seismic energy triggered fault slips along the interconnected plate boundaries. Earthquakes rippled along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge for hundreds of miles, awakening or intensifying volcanism in the Azores and beyond. Underwater landslides added to the tsunamis.

Ejecta—rock, molten material, vaporized asteroid—hurled into the atmosphere and beyond, then rained back down across a vast region. Firestorms ignited from re-entering debris. Half of Portugal was inundated with sea water, the other half was burnt to a crisp. A massive plume of dust, sulfur, water vapor, and aerosols lofted into the stratosphere, spreading globally. Sunlight dimmed. An “impact winter” settled in, promising months to years of disrupted agriculture, erratic weather, and cooling temperatures.

In the longer term, the tectonic wound might not heal quietly. The impact could alter local spreading rates or stress fields, influencing volcanism and seismicity for decades. The Azores region—already dynamic—would face ongoing aftershocks, possible new eruptions, and a reshaped seafloor. Global climate effects would ripple through economies and societies: crop failures, famines, mass migrations.

Humanity would survive—700 feet is large, but not civilization-ending like the Chicxulub asteroid impact. Still, the death toll was enormous. Direct effects claimed millions near the Atlantic. Indirect disruptions would affect billions.



Blake stood on the concrete ramp at the marina when the ground began to shake. The vibration rattled his bones. He lunged for the nearest mooring piling and held on.

“What the f**k was that?!” Will shouted from the office shed.

“New Madrid?” Blake muttered, then louder: “Oh hell… that damn thing hit. Ragnarok!”

For the past week, the news had been wall-to-wall coverage of the international effort to divert the asteroid. Someone had screwed up. Selfishly, Blake felt a surge of relief that it hadn’t come down anywhere near Arkansas. His phone erupted with alerts: impact confirmed in the Atlantic near the Azores. He’d heard talk on the TV of East Coast evacuation routes, but a tsunami moving at airliner speed would outrun most of them. At least it hadn’t struck the Gulf. That would have been a very different kind of nightmare.

Blake tried Brooke’s number. Busy signal. She was probably already en route to pick up Vivian from school. He walked up to the shed and told Will and Robert to shut everything down for the day. “Drive careful. People are gonna be losing their ever loving minds.”

Brooke arrived home earlier than usual. “They let school out right after the news broke. Phones were jammed—I couldn’t get through.”

Blake nodded toward the TV. He’d split the screen into four quadrants, each tuned to a different network. All showed the same chaos: live feeds, graphics, stunned anchors.

“What are they saying?” Brooke asked, kicking off her shoes.

“They tried the nukes—timed detonations to nudge it aside. Something went wrong. No one’s pointing fingers yet.”

Blake stood and poured himself a glass of water, then pulled two pounds of smoked pulled pork from the freezer and set it to defrost in the microwave. He set out the hickory-sweet BBQ sauce the girls liked and his own pepper sauce. Six nice Russets came out of the potato bag; he peeled and sliced them for fries. A tub of coleslaw from the fridge still smelled all right, so he added that too.

Brooke finally tore her eyes from the screen and joined him in the kitchen.

“What do you think is going to happen?” she asked quietly.

Blake kept working. “Millions are already gone. Millions more will die in the weeks ahead from secondary effects—starvation, disease, supply breakdowns. We’ll see weird weather: heavier rains, cooler temps, screwier weather patterns overall. The impact kicked a ton of debris and water vapor into the atmosphere. Sunlight’s going to be blocked for a while.” Parts of the book Hammer of God came back to Blake. He felt like they were living the script.

“What can we do?”

“Same as always,” he said, turning to meet her eyes. “Keep living. Get married. Tend the garden. Raise Vivian. Try to stay normal. Honeymoon’s probably off the table for now.”

“I don’t care about that,” Brooke said, stepping closer. “As long as we’re together.”

Blake nodded, a small smile breaking through. “I’m going to hunt down a greenhouse setup with grow lights—get it built before the cooling really sets in. We’ll make it through this, same as everything else.”

They worked side by side, the TV murmuring in the background, while outside the world tried to figure out how to keep turning.
 
Most of the impact winter will be in the northern hemisphere. Artic, and to a lesser extent Antarctica ice pack will break up and release fresh water that will sink the gulf stream if it survive the impact. The surviving elites will relocate to the southern Pacific rim. Due to lost shipping and reduced production food prices will make food prices rise. Peru, Chile, Australia, and southern eastern Africa agriculture will benefit.
 
Chapter Thirty-One


Blake found two 12-by-24-foot greenhouses at a portable building company in North Little Rock. The place offered free delivery and setup, so he ordered them on the spot, transferred the funds, and picked up fluorescent grow lights along with dozens of spare bulbs. Clearing the trees from the site would take only a couple of days. The Johnson cousins showed up the next morning with chainsaws and began work. The stumps ended up being easy to remove from the saturated soil.

In the middle of the scramble, the Wood-Mizer sawmill arrived. Blake offloaded the shipping crates and stowed them under the old sawmill shelter for now. Assembly could wait until things settled.

The first tsunami reached the East Coast in roughly eight hours. It was devastating, yet not the apocalyptic nightmare some had feared. The initial wave crested nearly 150 feet high and raced inland at 650 miles per hour, surging 15 to 20 miles in places. Experts later determined that while the asteroid had set events in motion, the worst damage came from the lateral collapse and underwater landslides of Cumbre Vieja and El Hierro on the Canary Islands—triggering true megatsunamis.

Out at Lake Ouachita, no one clearly saw the storm clouds approaching. They rolled in during the early morning darkness, bringing heavy lightning, thunder, and torrential rain still carrying a faint tang of salt from the ocean. Flash flooding followed quickly. The gates at Blakely Mountain Dam had to be partially opened to prevent the water from topping the structure. Surprisingly, no tornadoes were reported.

When Mother Nature unleashed her fury, it made no difference whether the trigger had been man-made, celestial, or both. All anyone could do was hunker down and ride it out. You can beg all you want, but that storm wasn’t going away.

The steady roar of rain pounding on the metal roof made sleep impossible. Blake and Brooke rose first and made hot cocoa. Soon Vivian padded in, rubbing her eyes, and joined them at the table. The storm finally eased to a light drizzle by mid-afternoon. The radio crackled with alerts about road closures, damage reports, and safety tips.

Robert arrived as the light was fading, grinning like a possum eating a lemon rind. “You built a solid cabin there, boy. Nary a leak anywhere. She’s built right.”

“You ready for some supper?” Blake asked. “Brooke’s had a pot roast going all day.”

“Why shore, I could eat a mite.”

They washed up, and Blake handed Robert a cold bottle of Killian’s Irish Red. Brooke set a steaming bowl of roast and vegetables in front of him, along with a wedge of golden cornbread. Vivian offered the blessing, her young voice steady: “Thank You, God, for bringing us safely through the storm and for watching over Mr. Robert in his cabin.”

The rainfall, wind speed, and electrical activity slowly diminished but the experts had no idea when normal weather would return. The self-dumping rain gauge on Blake’s weather station said they had received 36 inches of rain.

As soon as the ground dried enough, Blake called the greenhouse company. Demand had apparently spiked—someone else had the same idea—and they offered to buy the units back for half again what he’d paid. Blake refused. True to their word, though clearly reluctant, the crew arrived a couple of days later and assembled the greenhouses, even setting up the interior bedding trays.

Robert showed Blake the best spots for leaf mold. Brooke and Vivian hauled it in on a trailer and filled the planting beds. Blake trenched an electrical line out to the structures and hung the grow lights with new chain and hooks from the hardware store. The system fired up perfectly.

The drizzle had stopped, but the sky remained overcast. Solar panels produced little, so the vortex generators carried the load, keeping the battery banks charged. Blake kept the diesel generator fueled and ready as backup.

Overall, the area came through the storm better than expected. A few roads needed repairs where banks had eroded, but nothing catastrophic. Some town folks retreated to their leased cabins for a few days, keeping Will and Robert busy. Brooke had everything lined up for their wedding, and despite the dismal sky, it turned out beautifully. Vivian had marked the calendar the last day they’d seen full sunshine.

Brooke looked radiant, every inch the expectant queen as she walked down the aisle on Robert’s arm. He cut a surprisingly dapper figure in the new suit Brooke had taken him to Hot Springs to buy. The old converted barn glowed with light, reflected off the polished concreted floor. The band played with heart, and the food drew many positive compliments. Blake’s face ached from smiling so much.

When it was time to leave, Uncle Joe’s meticulously restored 1968 Cadillac Eldorado whisked them away. Back at Sandy Shoals, Blake and Brooke changed into comfortable clothes and relaxed until Robert brought Vivian home. She set up her camera on its timer and snapped a family portrait. She had a Christmas present to work on, she said with a mysterious smile.

Blake tucked the two bottles of champagne he’d taken from the reception into the root cellar, out of sight. He’d pop them when the baby arrived.

The greenhouse plants grew astonishingly fast under the lights. The rich humus mixed with manure compost helped, of course, but the difference between them and the outdoor raised beds was dramatic. Blake figured the heavy rains had leached nutrients from the garden soil. He’d have to use a balanced fertilizer like Miracle-Gro this season, but he’d rebuild the beds with plenty of compost and leaf mold come fall.

Relocated news headquarters gradually came back online, airing documentaries on the tragedy. An accurate body count still eluded officials, but reconstruction had begun in earnest. Financial operations had shifted inland to Atlanta, Dallas, Nashville, and Charlotte. Chicago had been sidelined long ago by crime and dysfunctional governance. East Coast ports were rebuilding, but most goods now flowed through West and Gulf Coast facilities. Ports on the Great Lakes would be in use as soon as the Saint Lawrence seaway was cleared.

Commodity prices had risen as the government redirected tax dollars into recovery efforts. Everyone tightened their belts, but life in the interior remained manageable. Tourism had dipped at first, then rebounded as people sought temporary respite from the nation’s troubles they were daily facing.
 
Chapter Thirty-Two


Blake sat on the couch, thumbing through a coffee-table book, rescued from a used book store, on the documents that founded the country and the speeches of men who had urged independence from Great Britain. A page fell open to Samuel Adams’s address at the State House in Philadelphia, delivered shortly after the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

Adams.png“If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, go home from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains set lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen.”

The words carried the fierce patriotic fire of their era, steeling resolve against British tyranny. The same speech could be delivered today, Blake thought, and it would sting just as sharply—urging voters to reject the ever-expanding reach of socialist policies and dependency pushed by the left wingers of American politics. But few would listen. America had grown soft. The word “free” short-circuited common sense; people no longer asked who would pay for the endless promises. Certainly only the government, which simply printed more money and let inflation have its way.. Politicians never worried about the people getting blindsided down the road with the bill.

Blake closed the book slowly, his mind turning to more immediate realities. It was often said there wasn’t a competent soul left inside the borders of the District of Columbia, and recent events had proven it—especially with the Federal Emergency Management Agency. The most decisive action FEMA had managed was coordinating the fleet of helicopters that whisked politicians westward mere hours before the tsunami waves surged up the Chesapeake and sloshed against Washington. The Mall had been dry again the next day, before the rains arrived. Ordinary citizens along the eastern seaboard had already rolled up their sleeves and begun recovery; they had shouldered the agency aside like the little pig shoving toward the trough. Few government representatives had escaped without staring down the barrel of a pistol at one point or another.

Blake drove up to the Complex and stepped inside to visit Dale. Dale was helping a customer but glanced up and waved.

“How are things going?” Blake asked.

“We’re having a run on Mountain House meals and those little whistles people use when search teams are looking for them.”

“Well, it’s a start. At least folks are thinking about surviving and preparing. You should think about displaying a selection of books on survival and prepping,” Blake suggested.

“Now that’s an idea. I’ll start putting together a list.”

Blake wandered down to the café and ordered a cup of coffee along with one of Camilia’s new menu items: honey-glazed blackberry fritters. They were clearly popular. He sat at the counter, listening to the steady stream of orders while he ate. The fritter was simple but satisfying—blackberries folded into dough, deep-fried, then brushed with a light glaze of butter, cream cheese, and honey. The fryer seemed to stay busy with three or four bubbling away at all times. It paired perfectly with the strong coffee.

Blake grinned as he looked around. Several “big-boned” women were daintily eating their fritters with knife and fork, determined not to get their fingers sticky. Camilia had stocked a big box of hand-wipe packets on the counter for exactly that reason.

Relief support groups had mobilized quickly, collecting money and goods for those most affected by the asteroid impacts. In truth, the clothing and food shipments proved far more useful than cash. Once the initial fog of disaster lifted, prices on nearly everything had skyrocketed. Most counties had stood up fraud units to clamp down on outright pricegouging, and people had come through. Strategically placed semi-trailers collected donations in urban areas for sorting at warehouses near the hardest-hit zones.

The Complex had become a major collection point. Blake donated a box truck loaded with food and a full semi-trailer of bottled water from a plant in Missouri. He was reluctant to give cash to the Red Cross—its executive overhead was notorious—but they had deployed far faster than FEMA, so he contributed anyway.

For the most part, life around Lake Ouachita had changed in subtle but meaningful ways. Families were planting larger gardens and cutting back on frivolities. Heirloom seeds had become a prized commodity and a hot barter item at flea markets. Kentucky Wonder pole beans had spiked in value this week; the week before, Irish Cobbler and Red Norland seed potatoes had held top billing. A handful of seed potatoes might fetch five novelty T-shirts or a pair of jeans. A five-pound sack could bring a solid pair of brogans—sometimes two, depending on size.

Robert was still working with Will but had taken time off to return to his old stomping grounds and plant his guerrilla gardens. He hadn’t spoken of leaving permanently. He seemed to enjoy the work here, happy to mingle with locals and summer visitors alike. He went out of his way to help anyone who needed it.

Refugees had trickled in from the east as far as Little Rock and Hot Springs, swelling Garland County schools to overflowing. Like many other parents, Brooke had decided to begin homeschooling. The government actually encouraged it, and the board of education had set up counselors to guide families through the requirements. Vivian loved the new routine: dedicated study time, plenty of room for outdoor activities to clear her mind, and enough nearby children her age that she never lost her social connections.

All in all, the residents of the area were doing remarkably well. In some cases, businesses were expanding, and those who had left were drifting back, determined to reestablish themselves. Collier Gas Futures had approached Blake with an almost absurd offer for his gas well. He had paused—tempted—but ultimately declined. The well supplied gas for cooking, on-demand hot water, and could easily be piped for house heat. He had even installed gas heaters in the greenhouses. No, he had a good, independent thing going. He would do without the middleman.

Dale had dedicated one corner of the store entirely to military surplus and survival gear to serve the growing wave of Walter Mitty preppers. He stocked mostly U.S. military items—though some pieces dated to 1980s–90s contracts with foreign manufacturers. A few lot’s had come from overseas from Great Britain and other Countries of Northern Europe. Even Brooke and Vivian had Norwegian musette bags they used on their crystal and gem hunts. That section stayed busy, with at least a half-dozen browsers at any time, some driving two or three hours. Even the most timid Rambo usually left a few dollars lighter.

Blake’s Johnson cousins had come over to help assemble the Wood-Mizer sawmill and had quickly grown familiar with it. Now every tree they felled was evaluated for its value as building stock and cut accordingly. Lumber prices had climbed sharply, and locals eagerly bought what they produced. Blake let the cousins run with it; they were recovering a surprising number of trees from properties being cleared for expanded market gardens or new builds. The proceeds went into a family pool fund for emergencies and the wood added to their lumber and firewood inventories.
 
Chapter Thirty-Three

Blake and Will were changing the winch drum on the boat winch for a larger drum and changing out the steel rope for synthetic. With the lighter rope, even Robert could toss an anchor aft and pull the boat off a sandbar or obstruction with little effort. Blake had been meaning to do this for a while, but current events came first. Robert was deep in the upgrade, memorizing where everything went. Robert had enough experience now he could make runs on his own. They could always double up if an unusual ferry job called for it.

Blake’s experimentation with the freeze dryer had come to rice. Blake figured out he could par boil rice, then freeze dry it, and when reconstituted, the rice was just as tasty as normally prepared. He was able to obtain a semi-trailer of rice over in Stuttgart, the heart of the southern rice belt. It had been difficult because of recovery efforts, but a shipment had been canceled, and the company needed the trailer and space. Blake canvased his friends and neighbors and they bought a good bit of it at prices that beat the big box stores and Blake began freeze drying and packaging the instant rice, storing it in vacuum sealed mylar bags, adding it to his LTS foods.


One evening Vivian presented Blake with a beautiful, detailed watercolor painting of a man sitting beside the water, no doubt Ouachita lake, with a cane pole fishing.

“I know you don’t get a lot of time to fish, but I thought you might like to hang it in your office.”

“Sweetheart, this is beautiful and very thoughtful of you. I’m getting it framed tomorrow and hanging it!”

Vivian grinned happily and skipped away.

Brooke came from the kitchen with a paper in her hand and said, “She was excited about painting that for you. Look at this”—handing Blake the sheet of paper. It was a watercolor of a cluster of Fly Agaric Mushrooms in the forest. The mushrooms have a deep red and orange cap, narrow white stalks, and white gills. It was like they were taken with a digital camera.

“She’s become quite good, hasn’t she?” Blake said.

“She’s working on a series of forest wildlife and flora. I want to see if someone could display them in an exhibit.”

“I’m sure Dale would buy and display any wildlife scenes she could paint.”

“That’s an idea. I’ll suggest she come up with some of her examples and talk to Dale.” Brooke said. “She could possibly get some ideas to customize some paintings especially for the store.”

This became a seed for another building in the complex to be called “Hollowed Hands Gallery”, specializing in the display and sale of local arts and crafts. Blake kept the idea under his hat for now.

The idea took root faster than Blake expected. What started as a casual suggestion from Brooke about displaying Vivian’s watercolor series bloomed into a full-fledged plan for a new building in their growing complex in the hills overlooking the Ouachita Lake shoreline. “Hollowed Hands Gallery,” Blake announced one evening over dinner, the name evoking the skilled, calloused hands of local artisans and the hollowed-out feeling of creative expression finding its home. Vivian’s eyes lit up like the lake at sunrise.

Planning began the next morning. Blake sat with Brooke and Vivian at the kitchen table, blueprints sketched on graph paper and a laptop open to timber frame resources. The gallery would complement the existing stores in the complex. It needed to feel rustic yet inviting—timber-framed for durability and that authentic Arkansas mountain charm. Blake wanted something that could withstand the region’s occasional fierce storms while showcasing the beauty of local materials.

“We source the timbers locally where we can,” Blake explained. “White oak and pine from the national forest managed stands or reclaimed from old barns. Post-and-beam construction, mortise-and-tenon joints. No nails in the frame if we can help it—traditional pegs. It’ll age gracefully, like the old lodges up in the hills.” Brooke nodded enthusiastically; listening to her husband’s plans. Brooke was taking notes and planned to start researching structural engineers who understood seismic considerations and the tremors they received occasionally.

Permits came through smoother than expected, thanks to community ties and the post-recovery push for local business revitalization. Blake’s LLC expanded its scope, and they budgeted conservatively—drawing from the still remaining cash from the sales of the raw diamonds. The design called for a main gallery space of about 2,500 square feet, with high cathedral ceilings exposing the heavy timbers, large south-facing windows for natural light, and a covered porch wrapping around for outdoor exhibits during milder weather. A small workshop in the back would host classes, and storage for inventory. Vivian’s mushroom series and lake scenes would have key space near the entrance.

Construction kicked off in earnest two weeks later. The timber framing company had intimate ties to the construction firm used for preparing the site, so things went smoothly from the first day. First came the foundation: a reinforced slab with proper drainage sloping toward the lake, engineered to handle Arkansas clay soil and monsoon-like rains they sometimes received. Then the timber arrived—massive beams hand-selected for straight grain and minimal defects. Blake, Will and Robert helped with the raising when they could, learning the ancient art of timber framing under the guidance of a retired builder from Hot Springs who’d done several projects in the Ouachita area.

“Peg this one tight, Blake,” the old-timer called out as they hoisted a bents section into place. The satisfying thunk of mallets driving wooden pegs echoed across the site. Blake worked alongside them, his hands blistered but his spirit high. Synthetic rope from the leftover spool from the boat upgrade proved handy for temporary rigging. Even Vivian pitched in, mixing mortar for stone accents around the base and sketching ideas for signage—a carved wooden sign with intertwined hands holding a paintbrush and chisel.

Progress was steady but deliberate. They incorporated passive solar design with overhangs to shade the summer sun and SIPs (structural insulated panels) for the roof and walls to keep energy costs low—aligning perfectly with Blake’s prepper ethos. Insulation was top-notch, and they ran conduit for future solar tie-ins. Brooke coordinated the interior: whitewashed shiplap walls, polished concrete floors with radiant heating for winter, and adjustable track lighting to highlight artwork. Local craftsmen built display pedestals and shelving from the same reclaimed wood as the frame.

Challenges arose, of course. A late summer thunderstorm delayed the roof raising by three days, and supply chain hiccups from broader recovery efforts meant waiting on specialty hardware. But the community rallied—neighbors helped where they could. They were happy to stimulate the minds of the youth of the area instead of video games and social media apps. There was a Facebook page started dedicated to the raising of the gallery, showing daily pictures of the progress. A retired art teacher who had moved to the area the previous summer stepped forward and volunteered to be the gallery curator. After an extensive background check, Blake hired her. He didn’t want any carpet munchers sneaking in.

Dale from the store stopped by daily, already envisioning cross-promotions. The few wildlife and nature paintings Vivian had finished and displayed next to hunting gear displays in the outfitter store were sold almost immediately as soon as they were put up.

By early fall, the structure stood proud. The timber frame gleamed with natural oils, its exposed joinery a testament to craftsmanship. Inside, the space smelled of fresh wood and possibility. They installed heavy-duty doors, security cameras tied to the main system, and a small office nook for Brooke to manage inventory. Vivian spent afternoons there, painting custom pieces: a series of Ouachita sunrises, crystal-laden forest floors (nodding to the quartz capital nearby), and detailed studies of local flora like the Fly Agarics that had sparked it all.

The grand opening was set for the first Saturday in October, timed with peak fall foliage and a local arts festival spillover from Hot Springs. Invitations went out via the store’s bulletin and word-of-mouth. Blake’s freeze-dried rice operation provided catering samples—quick, tasty packets for visitors to try. The family worked late the night before, hanging Vivian’s originals and pieces from over a dozen local artists: pottery from Mount Ida, hand-carved wooden spoons, fiber art from quilters in the hills, and jewelry incorporating Ouachita quartz.

Opening day dawned crisp and clear. Lake Ouachita sparkled under a blue sky as cars and trucks rolled in. A bluegrass duo played under a tent in the parking lot, their fiddles carrying down the slope all the way to the marina. Vivian stood nervously by her display, wearing a new dress Brooke had helped pick out with a custom artist’s smock made by a local seamstress. Blake squeezed her shoulder. “This is your moment, sweetheart. Hollowed Hands is about people like you—creating beauty even when the world gets tough.”

The turnout exceeded expectations. Tourists from the state park mixed with locals, drawn by flyers promising “Art from the Hands That Build Arkansas.” Sales started strong: Vivian sold three paintings in the first hour, including a large Ouachita fishing scene to a couple from Little Rock. Custom commissions poured in— one for a timber frame home mirroring the gallery itself. Brooke handled transactions smoothly, while Will and Robert gave tours of the construction details, explaining the joinery and sustainability features.

By midday, the gallery buzzed. Children participated in a free mini-painting workshop led by Vivian, their laughter mingling with adult conversations about resilience and community. Dale bought several wildlife pieces for his store, and a Hot Springs gallery owner approached about future collaborations. Blake stood back, watching it all with quiet pride. The freeze-dry rice venture, if handled properly, could fund more projects like this and maybe establish a scholarship fund. But this gallery was more than business—it was legacy.

As the sun dipped toward the lake, casting golden light through the big windows and illuminating the timber bones of the building, Brooke slipped her arm around Blake’s waist. “You did good. We did good.”

Robert approached with a grin, Vivian trailing behind with a sold tag in hand. “Another one gone. That mushroom cluster—some photographer thought it was a print until he saw the signature.”

Blake laughed. “Keep ’em coming, kiddo. This place is just getting started.”

That evening, after the last visitors left and the bluegrass faded into crickets and lapping water, the family gathered on the porch. String lights twinkled overhead, reflecting off the heavy beams. Blake raised a glass of local cider. “To Hollowed Hands—to the work of our hands, the creativity of our community, and building something that lasts through whatever comes next.”

Vivian beamed, her latest sketchbook open on her lap. Will talked excitedly about expanding the workshop for boat model displays. Robert mentioned ideas for a winter holiday market. The gallery wasn’t just another building; it anchored their growing enterprise, a beacon of normalcy and beauty amid recovery and preparedness.

In the weeks that followed, Hollowed Hands became a hub. Artists dropped off new work, classes filled up, and revenue helped bolster the scholarship fund. Blake found himself sketching ideas for more timber-framed additions—additional workspace for pottery classes and workspace, a larger event space, perhaps. The lake murmured approval in the background, its waters a constant reminder of why they’d chosen this life: self-reliance, family, and creating beauty from the raw materials around them.
 
Chapter Thirty-Four

Brooke was still juggling her real estate sideline while helping out at the gallery. She had contacted many of her friends who hunted for crystals and gems, persuading them to display—and perhaps sell—some of their spare pieces. A custom cabinet maker had built excellent display cases, and Blake bought bolts of black, navy blue, and red velvet to line them. The rich fabric made the crystals and gems pop. Blake figured that would suffice, but the women decided each gem type deserved its own color. More bolts were soon on order.

Their raised-bed garden had thrived that summer. They canned everything they could, buying extra corn from market stands to can and freeze in bulk. Blake loved nothing better than a couple of ears of buttered corn on the cob as a snack—cut into coblets, slathered with real butter, and seasoned with salt and pepper. It could keep him happily stationary for a good long while.

Despite the planet’s near fly-by and the wild weather patterns it left behind, the season had been mercifully calm. No tornadoes had struck their area yet. Historically, Arkansas tornadoes peaked in spring—especially April and May—with March also active, averaging around five per year statewide. A smaller bump occurred in November, while winter months saw fewer but still possible events. After the atmospheric upheaval from Planet 9, the absence of twisters felt like a genuine blessing.

Then, as fate would have it, things changed.

A waterspout formed beautifully against the sky before morphing into a tornado. It caused little structural damage but shredded trees where it touched down, sweeping across Wilson Island and leveling half its sparse tree cover. Storm chasers had a field day trying to get close.

One day, a thirty-foot box truck pulled up to the outfitter store, with Jeremy Cassidy arriving right behind it. It was loaded with excess field gear and other oddities.

“What’s all this?” Blake asked.

“Just payment for the warehouse space you’re holding for me,” Jeremy replied.

“But you don’t even have anything stored here yet.”

“Think of it as a retainer. You pay a lawyer even when he’s not working, just to keep him on standby. Same idea.”

“What’s in here?” Dale asked.

“Load-bearing equipment, field kitchen gear, tentage, and a ton of canvas. All excess, bought legally through the Defense Logistics Agency at Fort Bragg.”

“We appreciate it, but paying for storage wasn’t necessary.”

Dale rounded up store associates to unload and inventory the truck while Blake and Jeremy stepped outside to talk.

“So what exactly does Shield do?” Blake asked.

“You could say we’re the nullification arm protecting the Constitution.”

“I thought the Supreme Court has repeatedly rejected nullification.”

“And you think the Supreme Court is an impartial arbiter when cases pit citizens against the federal government and its members? The Court is a branch of that government. It’s like letting the accused judge their own crimes.”

“Yeah, you’ve got a point there. You involved in the recovery efforts?”

“Up to our hips. You wouldn’t recognize the East Coast. It was like someone flushed the toilet—some folks might even call that a blessing. But too many bad actors slipped through, so we’ve still got work ahead. Now we also have to guard against the opportunists preying on people standing in line for aid.”



The late Thursday afternoon sky over Alamo, Arkansas, had turned an ugly shade of green—the kind that sent old-timers in the Ouachita National Forest scrambling for their weather radios. Blake Alexander stood on his covered porch near Sandy Shoals, studying the clouds. The air hung thick and electric with that pre-storm stillness. His phone buzzed: Tornado Watch for Garland and Montgomery Counties.

“Brooke!” he called inside, where the scent of simmering chili and fresh cornbread warmed the kitchen. “NOAA’s lighting up. We might need to hunker down.”

Brooke emerged from the back room, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her expression calm but alert. Beside her stood Vivian, the precocious eight-year-old orphan they’d been fostering since the tragedy that brought her into their lives. The girl’s wide eyes reflected the gathering darkness. “Is it bad, Dad?” she asked, clutching her well-worn sketchbook and digital camera.

Blake ruffled her light brown hair. “Might be a rough one, kiddo. But we’ve prepped for this. Remember the drill?” Vivian nodded solemnly. They’d run tornado drills twice since she moved in, turning them into a game to ease the fear. Blake’s mind ran through his mental checklist: generator fueled (though still offline), rainwater barrels secured, basement stocked with weeks of supplies, the new artesian well capped but ready. This wasn’t their first brush with Arkansas weather, but even an EF1 tornado was serious business.

Their property sat on a gentle rise on the peninsula overlooking a quiet cove of Lake Ouachita, about sixteen miles northeast of Alamo as the crow flies. The lake sprawled vast and deceptively peaceful, its roughly 690 miles of shoreline a mix of rocky bluffs and wooded inlets. Neighbors dotted the area—mostly weekenders: the Harpers down the road from the Complex with their reinforced shop, old Mr. Ellison on the point with his fishing cabin, and the Brady Mountain Marina where folks swapped stories and catches of bass and crappie.

The wind picked up. Blake doused the firebox in the wood cookstove and shepherded his family to the basement shelter—a solid ICF pour he had helped build during renovations. Concrete forms, rebar, and a heavy steel door made it feel like a bunker. They carried down go-bags, extra blankets, and Vivian’s drawing supplies. Brooke tuned the emergency radio and attached the outside antenna while Blake double-barred the outside cellar door and checked the comms setup. Static crackled, then an urgent voice cut through: “Tornado Warning for western Garland County. Rotation confirmed near Alamo. Take shelter immediately.”

Outside, the sky unleashed. Trees whipped like angry flags. Torrential rain and hail hammered the metal roof in sheets. Vivian calmly adjusted a battery lamp and continued with her drawing as thunder boomed. Blake peered through a viewing block, jaw tight. “It’s nearby—looks like just west of the marina—but the trees are blocking the view.”

The tornado touched down just east of Alamo around 4:15 p.m., an EF1 roaring with winds near 100 mph. It carved a short path northeast, chewing through pine and oak for a quarter mile before roping out and reforming farther northeast. There was little personal property in its way unless it shifted east; few power lines ran through the area. It crossed the western arm of Lake Ouachita, waterspout-like fingers dancing across the surface, then reformed on the far shore and headed toward Buckville.

At the Harper place, a mile south of the marina, chaos erupted. Tom Harper had been securing his UTV when the funnel appeared over the treeline. “Get in the shop!” he yelled to his wife and two teens. Winds slammed the metal building, peeling back one wall like a sardine can. Tools and lumber flew. One John Deere tractor lifted and tossed thirty yards into the woods. Tom shielded his family behind a workbench as golf-ball-sized hail pelted what remained. Miraculously, no one was seriously hurt, but their generator shed vanished and the main house roof partially collapsed.

Blake felt the pressure drop in his ears moments before the worst hit. The house shuddered. A distant freight-train roar filled the air. Upstairs windows bulged slightly from the rapid pressure changes and aerodynamic forces.

“Stay against the outside wall!” he shouted, watching through the repurposed viewing block of an M48 Patton tank. Debris pelted the house—mostly smaller limbs. The worst was already moving away.

Up at Mr. Ellison’s fishing cabin on the point, across the original channel of the Ouachita River from the end of the peninsula, the elderly widower had ignored the warnings, trusting his decades on the lake. The tornado lifted his dock entirely, boats slamming into the bluffs. His cabin’s tin roof tore away, walls caving in. He survived by hunkering in his clawfoot tub but emerged cut and shaken, his prized arrowhead and lapidary collection scattered across the wreckage.

The tornado churned the lake into a frenzy. Waves swamped anchored boats near Brady Mountain Marina. One houseboat broke free, spinning wildly before smashing into drift logs. The community store lost its front facade; shelves of canned goods and tackle spilled into the mud. Power lines snapped, plunging Buckville and surroundings into darkness as night fell.

After twelve minutes of terror, the roar faded. Blake cautiously opened the cellar door. The air smelled of pine sap and wet earth. Their house looked unscathed.

“We’re okay,” he said, steady for Vivian’s sake. The girl peeked out, eyes wide.

Brooke hugged her tight. They emerged to survey the damage: scattered leaves and small limbs. Later, a drone flown from the marina revealed the clear path—a swath of flattened forest cutting southwest to northeast. Blake saw little impact on their property beyond some wind-whipped plants in the raised beds.

They grabbed flashlights, storm kits, and first-aid supplies, then headed out to check on neighbors. The marina road was blocked in one spot by a fallen pine. Blake fired up the Polaris, its lights cutting through the gloom. Vivian insisted on coming, clutching a small backpack of snacks she’d packed herself during drills.

At the Harpers’, they found the family digging out. “Lost the shop wall,” Tom said grimly, shaking Blake’s hand. “But we’re alive.” Together they cleared debris with chainsaws and muscle so vehicles could pass. Brooke tended minor cuts, her emergency medical training proving invaluable.

Mr. Ellison sat dazed on his ruined porch. “Took my dock clean away,” he muttered. Vivian offered him a granola bar. “Here, Mr. Ellison. For energy.” The old man smiled faintly. Blake helped him to the UTV and promised more assistance.

Word spread quickly via ham radio and runners. The tight-knit Sandy Shoals community mobilized. Blake’s mutual assistance group kicked into high gear—folks sharing generator power and well water. No local deaths—a miracle—but injuries mounted: broken bones from debris, shock, one child with a concussion at a nearby campsite.

As dawn broke, Blake stood on the porch with Brooke and Vivian. The lake glittered innocently again, though debris floated in the coves and chainsaws whined in the distance. “We were lucky,” he said quietly. “We built well here.”

Brooke leaned into him, Vivian between them. “Together.” The girl looked up. “Can we plant new trees? For the birds?”

Blake chuckled despite his exhaustion. “Yeah, kiddo. Maybe pecans, like we talked about.” Their preps had paid off—not just survival, but the capacity to help others. The tornado had torn through, but it hadn’t broken the spirit around Ouachita Lake.

In the days that followed, cleanup in populated areas went smoothly. Power crews double-checked lines. Vivian helped sort canned goods at the damaged store, her small hands a symbol of resilience. Brooke organized a community meal with salvaged supplies—smoked fish from generator-backed freezers and fresh bread from the outdoor oven.

The tornado dissipated miles northeast after carving nearly ten miles of destruction. It became a blueprint for smoother future mobilizations. Insurance claims would pile up, roofs would be replaced, and lives reordered. But for Blake, Brooke, and Vivian, it forged deeper bonds. In the shadow of the Ouachitas, amid the scent of chainsaw fuel and pine, they knew: preparedness wasn’t just gear. It was family, community, and the quiet strength to face whatever came next across the lake.
 
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