Chapter 2
Les dieux feront aux humains apparence,
Ce qu’il seront auteurs de grand conflict:
Avant ciel veu serein espee amp; lance
Que vers main guache sera plus grand afflict.
The gods will make it appear to mankind
that they are the authors of a great war.
Before the sky was seen to be free of weapons and rockets:
the greatest damage will be inflicted on the left.
Nearly three hours later, I finally made it home. I was barely through the front door when I collided with my son in the darkened interior of the house. With the power out, the only light came through the open windows. Zach carried a paper sack nearly as big as he was. “Hi, Dad. Wow! Where’d you get the gun?” He grinned in childish delight.
“Borrowed it from your Grandpa Ray.” I didn’t figure this was the time or place to tell an eight-year-old that his Grandpa was dead.
“Oh.” His attention shifted in that sudden way that only a child’s could. “Well, whatcha got in the bucket then?”
His energy and enthusiasm made me smile despite my fatigue. “Don’t worry about it right now. Where’s your mom?”
“In the garage. She’s putting a whole bunch of stuff in the van. Guess what! The ’lectricity went out, so Mama said we’re gonna spend the weekend at Nanna’s. Is that why you got the gun? Are you gonna shoot a deer while we’re there?”
I scowled and invoked the third unwritten Law of Parenting. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something?”
“Yes, sir. I’m taking this stuff out to the garage for Mom.”
“Well, don’t you think you’d better get with it?”
“Okay.” He paused for a second. “Dad?” He came closer and lowered his voice, his face suddenly serious. “Why is Mom so mad? She yelled at me and Megan and slammed the door and stuff. And we didn’t even do anything!”
I set the bucket down and leaned the rifle against the wall. “Here, give me that.” I reached for the sack he held. “Your mom is really nervous right now, Zach.”
He nodded as if he knew exactly what I meant. I knelt down next to him. “Did she tell you why?”
“Huh, uh.”
I thought for a moment on the wisdom of telling him what was going on. How could I explain to a child that there were people in the world who wanted to kill each other because of differing political or religious beliefs? That those people were so wrapped up in the “causes” they promoted and fought for, that they no longer cared about anything else, including the lives of their fellow human beings?
“Go get Megan, and both of you come out to the garage.”
“Yes, sir,” and he ran off to get his sister.
I turned and stepped into the garage. By the light of the garage windows, I could see that Debra was indeed upset, though worried seemed a more accurate term. I also saw that she had evidently been working at a frantic pace, loading the back of our minivan with any item that would be of use during the coming crisis. Nearly every bit of space from the front bucket seats to the open hatch was filled-garden tools, food, clothing, food, camping supplies, more food. Knowing my wife, I was certain she had thought of everything.
There was an area of about two feet of empty space before the hatch, and she was busily filling that with the survival books, magazines, and microfiche books I had collected over the years. The rest was totally packed. I was gratified to see some of the worry leave her face when she saw me in the doorway, relief altering her expression. Setting down the sack, I walked over and opened my arms. We held each other for a moment, needing no words, simply relishing the feel of one another. I felt her shoulders shake as she sobbed quietly, and I pretended not to notice. She hated losing control of her emotions.
“I was so scared. At first it was just the electricity, but then Megan noticed the phones were out too. So, I went outside to see if the Thompsons had heard anything, and I saw the sky.” She sniffed. “I remembered what you’d said back when you were hanging out with those survivalist crazies.” All of this was said with her face still buried in my shirt. “I guess maybe they weren’t so crazy after all.”
“I guess not.” I stroked her hair.
She took a deep breath and stepped back, discreetly wiping her eyes. “You all right?”
“So far, so good,” I replied dryly. “The hard part is still ahead, though.”
She nodded.
“I take it you haven’t told the kids what’s going on yet.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t want to scare them, but I’m pretty sure Megan’s guessed anyway. She’s read most of that science fiction garbage you keep around. And she’s smart enough to know I’m not just packing for a weekend at Nanna’s.”
I smiled. “Smart enough to keep quiet about it around her little brother, too. He’s so hyped about seeing your mom again that he hasn’t got a clue there’s anything more serious going on.” I paused. “Listen, they’ll both be here in a second, and I want to tell them. I mean, even if Megan’s figured it out already, she deserves to hear it from us. And Zachary may be young, but it looks like he’s going to have to grow up in a hurry.”
She thought for a minute and nodded acceptance just as Zachary came charging into the garage, followed a moment later by his older sister.
At sixteen, Megan was every bit as pretty as her mother had been at that age, though a few inches taller. Not that her mother wasn’t still pretty, but maturity brings a different beauty. Debra, despite her personal opinion, was a gorgeous woman. Megan, on the other hand, was a beautiful girl.
“Hi, squirrel bait.”
She tentatively returned my grin, as well as the insult. “Hi, scum wad.”
This had been a tradition in our family since she had been about seven years old. She and I had begun to derive a perverse pleasure in making fun of one another. I suppose that showed my level of maturity… or lack thereof. It had actually gotten so bad that my wife, slightly perturbed at the prospect of going through life with a daughter named “Squirrel bait” and a husband whose name changed without notice from “Scum wad” to “Scuzz bucket” or “Monkey toes”-I do have extremely long toes-had threatened us with bodily harm if we didn’t curb our insanity. Out of deference to her mandate, we thereafter confined our odd pastime exclusively to Saturday mornings.
For the next few years, Saturday mornings became an endless barrage of name-calling, from the borderline offensive to the ridiculously funny.
However, as Megan got older, she became aware of the fact that she was becoming a young lady and decided our Saturday morning ritual was too childish for someone of her maturity and sophistication. The insults tapered off to gradually be replaced by the expression that only a teenage girl can give-that rolling of the eyes that asks the
The fact that she now returned my jibe, rather than ignored it as usual, told me she was probably pretty
