“Maybe we will,” I agreed straight-faced. I decided it was safer not to mention the fact that she’d left the ball and gloves in the house. So much for pacifism.
She went past me to the front of the van. Over her shoulder, she suggested, “Why don’t you go change? I laid some things out on the bed for you.”
I shook my head in astonishment when I reached the bedroom. When she said she had laid out some things, I’d expected a change of clothes. Next to the clean clothes, boots, and denim jacket, my delicate, anti- firearm, pacifistic wife had neatly laid out some of my nastiest little martial arts “toys.”
Debra was subtly telling me that she recognized and accepted the fact that the world might suddenly become a nastier place in which to live. But by not mentioning her concession in front of the kids, she was also telling me that she would appreciate it if I would keep my little arsenal hidden from them.
I agreed, no use making them any more nervous than I already had. I quickly set to the task of selecting suitable armaments.
I strapped a sheath containing an eight-inch, flat, black throwing knife to the top of my left forearm. I was pretty good with it, and could usually sink four out of five throws. Next, I hung a
Last, I put on my jean jacket and looked in the mirror. I felt like a reject from a low-budget ninja movie, but all of my toys were hidden, with the exception of the lower half of the Bowie hanging from my belt.
For the piece de resistance, I had a sheathed machete hung on a web belt slung diagonally across my back with the handle within easy reach over my left shoulder.
Feeling a bit like a walking armory, I stuffed the remaining weapons into a sport bag and carried it out to the garage. Debra met me at the door.
“Do I look as conspicuous as I feel?” I shifted the sport bag to my other hand.
“That depends on how you feel.”
“A little bit like Robocop’s long-lost father.”
She shook her head. “I’ll never understand how you can crack jokes when things get so bad.” She reached up and stroked my cheek before I could answer. “I know it’s just your way, and I’ve been around long enough to realize that it’s more of a nervous response than anything else.” She gripped my chin and pulled my face down to her eye level. “But it drives me nuts sometimes!”
She stepped back and gave me a once-over. “Well, you look all right. Nothing too obvious, anyway. Are you ready?”
“Not quite. Is there room left in the van for my staves and sticks?”
“I already packed them,” she replied quickly.
“What about my backpack?”
“Packed.”
“Well can I at least grab a bite to eat?”
She smiled smugly. “Sandwiches in the front seat.”
I chuckled at the sheer normality of the exchange. “All right, I give up!” I raised my hands in mock surrender. “I freely admit it. Once again, you’ve thought of everything!”
“Good thing, buster. Otherwise, you don’t get a sandwich.”
Chapter 3
L’horrible guerre qu’en l’Occident s’appreste,
L’an ensuiuant viendra la pestilence
Si fort l’horrible que ieune, vieux, ne beste,
Sang, feu. Mercure, Mars, Iupiter en France.
The horrible war which is being prepared in the West,
The following year will come the pestilence
So very horrible that young, old, nor beast,
Blood, fire Mercury, Mars, Jupiter in France.
Five minutes later, we were ready to pull out of the garage so we could strap the bicycles on the back and top racks of the van. That meant announcing to our neighbors that we had viable transportation. It also meant announcing that we were bailing and leaving them to their own devices. My conscience twinged a bit, but I wasn’t about to risk my family’s safety for the sake of maintaining good relations with the neighbors. For all we knew, missiles could be streaking toward Houston at this very minute, so I didn’t want to spend any more time here than was absolutely necessary.
Debra and the kids got into the van, Zachary sitting on the floor in front of Megan on the passenger’s side.
I walked around to the driver’s side. “Don’t open the garage door until you start the van. I’ll put the bikes on as soon as you’re in the driveway, so you won’t have to get out at all. Just don’t leave until you see that I have the motorcycle running, okay?”
“Afraid we’re going to leave you?” she joked.
I shrugged. “Rejas
She leaned through the window and gave me a quick kiss. “Okay, let’s see if this thing’s going to start.” She pumped the gas, turned the key and, with a whoop from all of us, the van purred to life. Grinning, she thumbed the transmitter for the automatic garage door opener.
Her grin quickly faded, as did mine, when nothing happened. With a panicked motion, she jammed her thumb on the transmitter again. I watched understanding dawn on her face at the same time I realized what was wrong. The garage door opener was such an accepted part of our lives that it took a moment for me to realize that the power outage had knocked it out along with everything else. I didn’t know about Debra, but I felt incredibly stupid. We’d been looking so far ahead, we’d overlooked the obvious.
Signaling for Debra and the kids to wait, I climbed up the hood of the van and reached to pull the linking pin out of the arm on the opener. Now the door could be raised manually and, since the air was quickly becoming fouled with the van’s exhaust, I hurried to open it. With a look of relief, Debra pulled out onto the driveway. I dragged two of the bikes up the side of the van and into place on the roof rack, scratching the paint in the process. If that was the worst that happened, I figured we’d be in good shape. The other two bikes went onto the rack on the back hatch. After checking to make sure they were all secured properly, I ran back to the garage, strapped on my helmet, and climbed aboard the old dirt bike.
After making sure the fuel line was open, I thumbed the choke, pulled back the throttle, and kicked the starter lever. It took nearly a dozen tries, as the engine hadn’t been run in nearly a month, but it finally started. I rolled the trusty relic out of the garage, and dismounted to close the garage door.
“What are you doing?” Debra yelled. “You’re worried about the garage at a time like this? Let’s go!”
She was right. I shook my head. “Habit!” I climbed back on the bike to take the point position as we pulled out of the driveway.
We headed northwest on Highway 249. It was a little out of the way, but the route kept us well away from Houston’s Intercontinental Airport. Major runways could be used by U. S. bombers and, in the survivalist community, were thought to be likely priority targets for surface strikes.
