Lights Out

The evening descended with familiar rhythm over Pine Creek Estates. Ricky Matthews slouched into his recliner, remote in hand, while Missy arranged her pill organizer on the coffee table. Their seven dogs—a motley crew of rescues ranging from Chihuahua to shepherd mix—sprawled across the living room in various states of canine relaxation.

"Did you see that?" Missy pointed at the ceiling light that flickered once, twice, then plunged the room into darkness.

Ricky rose with a curse, using his phone light to reach the garage breaker box. After testing switches without success, he went outside to find the whole neighborhood dark, save scattered flashlight beams in windows.

"It's the whole neighborhood," he announced, returning to find Missy's face ghostly in the glow of her phone, panic etched around her eyes.

"Ricky, my medication... the heat... the dogs..." Her voice cracked. With hypothyroidism, her body struggled to regulate temperature—extended heat meant danger.

Ricky knelt beside her chair. "Hey, we prepared for this, remember?" His hand found hers. "We've got water, food, the solar panel. We'll be fine."

They checked their supplies by flashlight: bottled water, dog water reserves, canned food, rocket stove, solar panel, chargers, radio, lights, candles, firewood, and garden tools.

"Take the dogs to the bedroom," Ricky directed. "I'll get the generator running."

Thirty minutes later, extension cords snaked through the hallway. The window AC unit hummed to life in their master bedroom, cool air gradually pushing back the summer heat. Ricky connected the oscillating fan, TV, and Roku, plugging a USB drive into the latter.

Missy sank onto the bed, seven dogs arranging themselves around her. "Thank you," she whispered as the first blast of cool air hit her flushed face.

The TV screen glowed, but channels displayed only emergency messages or static. Ricky navigated to the USB drive. "How about some 'Friends'? The one where no one's ready?"

They settled into an uneasy routine as night deepened. Every two hours, Ricky checked the generator, refilling it once. They alternated between generator power and their battery backup, conserving fuel by running only the essentials.

"Try to sleep," Ricky suggested around midnight, volume low on an old Western neither was watching. "I'll take first watch."

In the artificial cool of their powered island, surrounded by sleeping dogs, they waited for dawn.

Dawn broke over Pine Creek Estates, the power still out. Ricky checked the half-empty generator after its night of use. Missy fed the dogs, fatigue etched on her face.

"I'll check things out," Ricky said, taking his knife and walkie-talkie. "Keep the doors locked."

Outside, the neighborhood had transformed. Children played tag in front yards, their laughter oddly anachronistic against the backdrop of powerless homes. Three men with makeshift weapons—a baseball bat, a crowbar, and a hunting rifle—nodded at Ricky as he approached.

"Any news?" Ricky asked.

Mike Thornton, retired electrician from nearby, shook his head. "Cell towers down. Radio's static. We're patrolling the perimeter."

"Good thinking," Ricky said.

The men moved on, leaving Ricky to return empty-handed.

A diesel engine's rumble drew residents outside. An Army truck crept down Sycamore Drive, soldiers leaping out while it rolled.

"Solar flare," a sergeant announced, clipboard in hand. "Grid's down in three states. Services back in five to seven days."

Soldiers distributed water and MREs efficiently. Ricky collected his portion, acknowledging unknown neighbors.

Later, his rocket stove's cooking drew curious residents.

"Bring thawing food," he called, preparing meat and produce.

Mrs. Petrovich contributed beef, the Ramirezes tortillas and cheese. Twenty neighbors assembled with chairs for dinner.

Someone announced the Hendersons' chlorinated pool was suitable for washing.

Overnight, rain drummed against rooftops. Ricky woke at the first drops, positioning buckets and containers to capture the precious resource. By morning, neighbors compared their rainwater harvests like trophies.

Dogs became the neighborhood watch, barking to warn of intruders. They alerted twice to men from eastern developments seeking supplies. Ricky and Mike met them at the entrance, choosing negotiation over conflict.

"We can trade," Ricky told the second group, "but we have no extras."

When the Johnson family's generator failed, Ricky spent three hours repairing it, returning home grimy but satisfied. Missy cataloged neighbors' medications and vital needs.

"We'll make it," she told him as their seven dogs circled their floor bed in the cool air. "Together."
Ricky eyed the nearly empty generator fuel gauge, last reserves gone. Inside, Missy dabbed herself with a wet cloth, moving sluggishly despite their strict power conservation.

"Three days left, four if we use nights only," he said.

The neighborhood had gone dark days ago, with only scattered flashlights and dim solar lights piercing the blackness.

"We needed more fuel," Missy said tensely. "More water, more food—"

"Hey." Ricky sat beside her, their dogs pressing near. "We prepared better than most."

Through the window, shadows moved across darkened yards. People they'd never seen before prowled the edges of the neighborhood, testing fences, watching houses. The community's initial unity had fractured under the weight of scarcity.

"Remember our first rescue?" Missy scratched behind Lucky's ears, the old shepherd mix leaning into her touch. "Everyone said we were crazy to take in a dog that old."

"Seven dogs later, they might have been right about the crazy part." Ricky's laugh carried an edge of worry.

They'd built their life around caring for these outcasts, these forgotten souls. Now, watching the darkness deepen outside, they drew strength from that same commitment.

Smoke from the Hendersons' BBQ threatened fences the next morning. Ricky rallied neighbors with buckets and shovels to fight the spreading fire. That afternoon, he helped the Martinez family bury their aged German Shepherd as the children wept, reminding him why they'd chosen animal rescue.

That evening, a diesel engine's rumble broke the dawn of their twenty-second day without power. An electric company truck rolled down their street, workers already unloading a new transformer. The neighborhood stirred to life, hope crackling through the air like static electricity.