LAUREN MITCHELL WAS WORRIED. HER GRANDSON had been gone nearly five hours. He’d left with the shotgun to go hunting. They needed meat, and the boy was a good shot. He’d often killed rabbits and squirrels for the table. The year before, he’d shot his first deer, a two-point buck.
Lauren had made him promise to stay away from any roads. If he heard any cars or trucks coming, she told him to take cover. The roads weren’t safe. Too many bushwhackers were traveling the countryside. In the quake zone, law enforcement had become largely a personal matter. Residents had been urged to do whatever they thought necessary to protect themselves and their property.
Almost as troubling were the reports of unusual animal behavior—stories about wild dogs, cattle, and horses that had gone out of their heads. Lauren still remembered her great-grandfather telling her about the New Madrid quake of 1895. How two days before it hit, all the chickens and dairy cattle on their farm had become frantic. A big Rhode Island red that had never shown any hostility had suddenly attacked him in the hen shed, slashing him with a talon. She remembered how he’d rolled up his shirtsleeve to show her the white scar that ran from his elbow to his wrist.
Lauren thought about that story and about what could happen to Bobby. She was angry with herself for letting him go out alone. They had enough food to last for several more weeks. She never should have let him talk her into going hunting by himself.
She was getting ready to put on a coat and go looking for him when she heard him shouting.
He was running through corn stubble in the field behind their house. He was panting, his breath forming white clouds as he jogged up a low hill. Three large rabbits dangled from his belt. He wore a blue stocking cap and carried the .410 shotgun.
When she stepped out on the back porch, he waved and shouted: “It’s like… a… canyon!”
Struggling to get the words out, he doubled over at the waist and tried to fill his lungs. He dropped his shotgun and the rabbits.
“It’s down by Millet Creek,” he said, still gasping for air.
“What’s down at the creek?” Lauren asked. He’d gone farther than she’d thought. The creek was almost five miles away. It meandered on a crooked line into Clark’s River, which emptied into the Tennessee near Paducah.
“A deep crack in the ground,” Bobby said. “It must have opened up in the quake. You’ve got to come look. It must be a mile long. I couldn’t see the bottom.”