BOOKS BY VANNETTA CHAPMAN
THE REMNANT SERIES
Overshadowed
(FREE E-ONLY NOVELLA)
Deep Shadows
Raging Storm
Light of Dawn
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Cover by John Hamilton Design
Cover Image © YuriyZhuravov / Shutterstock
Published in association with the literary agency of The Steve Laube Agency, LLC, 5025 N. Central Ave., #635, Phoenix, Arizona 85012.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
LIGHT OF DAWN
Copyright © 2017 by Vannetta Chapman
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
ISBN 978-0-7369-6657-3 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-7369-6658-0 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Chapman, Vannetta, author.
Title: Light of dawn / Vannetta Chapman.
Description: Eugene, Oregon: Harvest House Publishers, [2017] | Series: The remnant; 3
Identifiers: LCCN 2017001979 (print) | LCCN 2017009720 (ebook) | ISBN 9780736966573 (softcover) | ISBN 9780736966580 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Regression (Civilization)—Fiction. | Survival—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Christian / Suspense. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Christian fiction. | Dystopias.
Classification: LCC PS3603.H3744 L54 2017 (print) | LCC PS3603.H3744 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017001979
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DEDICATION
For Dad
CONTENTS
Books by Vannetta Chapman
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Excerpts from Shelby’s Journal
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Excerpts From Shelby’s Journal
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
Author’s Note
Emerging Technologies
About the Author
When the Lights Go Out… Who Will Be Ready?
All It Takes Is One Night to Plunge the World into Darkness
In the Darkness, Anarchy Awakens
About the Publisher
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is dedicated to my dad, who passed from this life to the next twenty years ago. My father loved to debate, to toss ideas back and forth, to challenge me to think outside my box. During my teenage years, we would stay up late into the night discussing “wars and rumors of wars,” how to survive in this world, and how surviving wasn’t enough—unless you had a clear conscience, unless you had helped your neighbor, unless you’d followed that Golden Rule. I love him and miss him and am so grateful to have had him in my life.
Many thanks to the awesome staff of Harvest House for your guidance as we jumped into the dystopian genre together. The fine folks in sales, editorial, and marketing all helped to make this project possible. Kim Moore, you are the best! Thank you to Reagen Reed for providing editorial input, and my agent, Steve Laube, for guiding me through the continually changing publishing world.
My pre-readers, Kristy and Janet, deserve rubies and gold, but this thanks will have to do instead. My family continues to encourage me through every deadline. A special thank you to Dorsey Sparks for inspiring my main character.
Many readers have written to me since the release of Book 1, Deep Shadows. You’ve taken my scenario to heart, spent time in prayer, some have put together go-bags, and others are purchasing generators…not necessarily because of what I’ve written, but rather because the times seem to point to an impending upheaval, a fundamental change in the way we live. I want to remind you to keep the faith. In the end, our faith and God’s provision are what will see us through any trouble this world throws at us. I continue to pray the events described in this series never happen, but as Max has said, “We hope for the best, but plan for the worst.”
And finally…“always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Ephesians 5:2
0).
In that day the Lord will reach out his hand a second time to reclaim the surviving remnant of his people.
THE BOOK OF ISAIAH
CHAPTER II, VERSE II
Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow.
T.S. ELIOT
THE WASTE LAND
EXCERPTS FROM SHELBY’S JOURNAL
July 3
11:35 p.m.
“We’re going to weather this. Together, we will find a way.” I want to believe Georgia’s words. I need to believe them. Carter has yet to move. He hasn’t opened his eyes or squeezed my hand. We managed to lower his temperature with cold cloths to his head and crushed ibuprofen that we spooned into his mouth. His insulin levels, though—they remain dangerously low.
July 4
8:15 a.m.
Jerry Lambert came by this morning to check on Carter. A retired vet is treating my son, and I am grateful to have him. This says more about the world we live in than anything I could write on the pages of this journal. Jerry thinks the reason for Carter’s hyperglycemia is the infection that has set in due to his broken leg. There’s no way to know how much or what type of bacteria was in the creek water where he lay for over twelve hours. Jerry gave him an injection of antibiotics. I didn’t think to ask how he managed to have that. My every prayer is, “Please, God. Don’t take my son.”
2:45 p.m.
Every able-bodied person in the area is preparing for battle with the Cavanaghs—a group that has taken over the ranch on the other side of the creek. The group that Carter told Roy about when they first found him. Carter hasn’t spoken another word since. Hasn’t even opened his eyes. I want to be with them, protecting this place, but I can’t leave Carter’s side.
10:40 p.m.
I am bargaining with God.
July 5
6:45 a.m.
Carter still hasn’t opened his eyes or spoken, but his glucose levels are improving. Max stopped by long enough to tell me they tried reasoning with the Cavanaghs. The result was a shoot-out that left two of our men injured.
July 6
2:15 a.m.
I’ve been listening to the echo of gunshots for more than an hour. Georgia says we are to pray, to have faith, to believe, but my mind and my heart and even my soul are numb. I sit here and hold Carter’s hand and try to remember how to pray. I flinch at the sound of the battle raging less than a mile from here, and I try to envision life without Max or Roy or Lanh. I wonder how we’ll survive if Jerry Lambert is killed. Since I’ve returned, we’ve been visited by someone from every surrounding farm—checking on Carter, asking how they can help, bringing food they can’t afford to share. We are suffering and tired and afraid, but we are also a family.
July 7
3:15 p.m.
Carter woke today. He’s weak and still battling the fever, but Jerry says he’s turned the corner. We don’t talk about what happened to him in the creek or to us in Austin. I don’t know if he’s aware of the battle raging with the Cavanaghs. How can one group of men hold out for so long in a place they have no legitimate claim to? Why don’t they just leave?
July 8
7:15 p.m.
Today has been a good day. I didn’t think I’d ever write those six words again. Carter sat up for a full half hour. The heat in his leg has lessened. Jerry says we’ll try to put a cast on it once the swelling goes down. I have no idea how he hopes to make one of those with our limited resources, but Georgia says that Jerry Lambert could create a…
July 9
4:25 a.m.
The horrors of last night exceed anything I saw in Abney before or after the flare. They even surpass the anarchy of Austin. There I didn’t have to unload the bodies of friends and neighbors, worrying with each person I moved that one of them might be the man I love. I shouldn’t have written that, but then I am long past worrying about someone finding my journal and sharing the secrets of my heart. I have loved Max for at least twenty-five years of my life. When did it begin? Junior high? Family vacations that my parents took with his, dragging us in their wake? Last week in Austin?
I won’t hide those feelings from myself any longer. If nothing else, tonight cemented in my mind the futility of looking toward the future, of imagining a happily-ever-after ending. The battle with the Cavanaghs is over. The toll in human lives is high—too high. Any more death is too much death.
I’m sitting by Carter’s bed, looking back over these pages, and I wonder, what is the point? If those we love are going to die, are bound to suffer so grievously, then why should we struggle so mightily to live? But as soon as those thoughts enter my head, I see the faces of those who have sacrificed so much: Patrick and Bianca and Max. And other people I barely know, and yet they risked their lives for me: Lanh and Bill and Clay. Donna. Gabe. My thoughts circle round and round, vacillating wildly between hope and despair as I wonder what the dawn will bring.
ONE
High Fields Ranch
March 14
Shelby’s head jerked up at the sound of the emergency bell. She dropped the bucket full of slop and ran full speed toward the house, the March wind whipping at her clothes. Carter reached the porch steps at the same time she did. Roy had hurried over from the main barn, and Georgia stood wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
Max stood next to the bell, an old rusted thing they’d found in the barn and fastened to the front porch as a kind of emergency warning system. There were many things they’d learned this first winter on the ranch with no electricity, no power, and no one to depend on but each other. One of the most important was the need for the bell.
Max grinned and held up both hands, palms out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Shelby wanted to scold him, but instead she leaned over, hands on her knees, and tried to pull in deep breaths. She focused on convincing her heart that it was okay to slow into a regular rhythm.
“So what’s up?” Carter asked.
“Got a call on the radio from the roadblock crew. Patrick’s on his way.”
“Patrick? Seriously?” A grin broke across Carter’s face.
Roy reached over and circled an arm around Carter’s neck, pulling him into a bear hug.
Georgia breathed a sigh of relief and sank onto the porch rocker.
“You’re sure?” Shelby raised her gaze to Max. “You’re sure it’s him? Because he’s not due for another—”
“Three months. Yeah, I know.”
“But you’re certain it is him?”
“Know anyone else who is still driving a red ’65 Mustang?”
An ache deep in Shelby’s heart eased at those words. Patrick. Alive. Here. It was something she’d prayed for every night since that day in July when he’d sacrificed himself for Carter.
Max walked down the steps and pulled her into his arms. “He’s okay. I told you he would be. He’s fine.”
She pulled away out of habit. Instead of being offended, Max grinned at her.
And then they heard him—the rumble of the V8 engine reaching them well before they could see the red hot rod. That it still worked was a wonder. But then many things they’d expected to work didn’t, and a few things they didn’t expect to still be functional were. The classic Mustang was one.
It made the curve in the caliche road and headed up the hill to the ranch house. Carter let out a whoop when sunlight glinted off the bright red finish. He took off at a lope and reached the car before it made the parking area. Patrick stopped the car in the middle of the road, stepped out, grabbed Carter, and pulled him into a hug.
Shelby’s legs began to tremble. She plopped down on the top porch step.
“Easy, Sparks.” Max moved so that he was standing in front of her. “This is a good thing.”
It was. Certainly it was, but they’d had so much death and tragedy that a part of her wondered.
Why was their dearest friend here three months early?
What had happened in Austin?
Was there mo
re trouble in Abney?
And then the passenger door opened, Bianca stepped out, and Shelby was running, her feet flying over the distance between them.
TWO
Twenty minutes later they were all seated around Georgia’s kitchen table. Shelby rubbed her fingertips across the worn oak.
Sunshine streamed through the window over the sink, landing on a jar of honey that they had harvested from the bee boxes they’d traded for last summer. Georgia had reheated their morning coffee on the gas stove top. It was made from acorns that they had gathered, soaked, and then roasted. It wasn’t Folgers, didn’t have a drop of caffeine in it, but somehow she’d become accustomed to it.
“Tell us everything,” Carter said. “How’s Abney? And…and the capital? We don’t get any news out here.”
Shelby tried to look at her son objectively, but of course that was impossible. He’d grown an inch since they’d come to High Fields. Georgia had measured him the week before at five feet eleven inches. He’d also dropped twenty pounds, weight he couldn’t afford to lose. His black hair curled at the base of his neck, and his dark brown eyes remained glued on Patrick and Bianca. Her son was no longer a child. He’d become a man since they’d moved to High Fields. He’d earned a seat at the table.
“When was the last time you visited Abney?” Patrick asked.
“Late fall,” Max said. “November, maybe.”
Max was tall and wiry, black hair streaked with gray, and deep-set hazel eyes. He’d celebrated his forty-sixth birthday the month before. Shelby had known him nearly all her life. In truth, she knew him better than any other person in this room, including her son. In many ways Max was more of a father to Carter than his own biological dad had been, but then Alex had died of a drug overdose when Carter was only three years old.
“We’ve been meaning to get back,” Roy admitted. “Something always comes up, though, and we figured they wouldn’t have what we needed anyway.”
Max’s parents had fared the changes since the flare better than anyone else Shelby knew. Roy’s daily work had changed very little. He’d been a rancher before and was a rancher and farmer still. Though these days he was doing both of those jobs more like his grandfather had done. Georgia had taken the changes in stride, working diligently to provide them with balanced meals and adequate clothing. Shelby hadn’t realized how much she missed her own parents until she moved to High Fields. Georgia and Roy were in their late sixties, hardworking, and pillars of strength both emotionally and spiritually. Her thoughts skipped back to last July, to those dark days when she’d wondered if Carter would survive his accident. She pushed those memories away, determined to focus on the situation at hand. She knew they were getting down to business when Bianca and Patrick exchanged glances, and Patrick cleared his throat.