Jake saw a jet contrail through the windshield. He slowed the truck to a crawl and peered up at the cloudless sky. He spotted a second one off to the left. There wasn’t much unusual about jet trails in the sky, dozens of planes travelled overhead above the Canadian prairies. They flew east to west and west to east twenty-four hours a day, picking up and depositing people all over the country from Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton, Winnipeg, and the bigger cities out east.
These white streams were different. They were running north to south, or south to north, Jake wasn’t sure which. Another trail appeared off through the right edge of the windshield. North to south, he thought, with a sickening lurch in his stomach. This third trail was much lower than the others, and Jake was almost certain he could see a bright orange spot at the head of it. The orange spot vanished over the horizon and a fourth and fifth trail suddenly appeared higher above.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be fucking happening.
He brought the pickup to a halt and staggered out, not bothering to put it in park. The truck rolled on for a few more feet, but Jake no longer cared. His eyes were jumping from contrail to contrail. They were appearing magically overhead, streaking across the sky, back and forth, north to south, south to north, as if an invisible child’s hand were painting lines of grey and white on an immense blue canvas.
I need to see Mandy… I want to be with my son.
Jake’s needs and wants would go unfulfilled. He couldn’t operate his legs, both arms hung limp at his sides. All he could do was watch as the missiles continued their terrible arcs in the sky. There was a deep rumble growing from somewhere behind him, he could feel the soil beneath his feet begin to shake. One of the awful trails appeared directly above him, pushing ahead of it a blazing yellow point of light as bright as the sun. The light was moving incredibly fast towards the southeast.
Jake tried to comprehend what city was close enough to obliterate from the weapon’s low trajectory. This is Canadian farm land. There’s nothing here for miles worth destroying. Winnipeg was almost two hundred miles away to the east. This thing was headed almost straight south. It would reach its target in the next few moments. The only other center of notable population was Brandon, a town with less than one-hundred residents. Why would they want to wipe out Brandon?
Perhaps the missile was intended for Minot, North Dakota. Jake remembered his father telling him about the US missile silos located there. Maybe that’s where this thing was headed—to atomize the American weapons before they could even clear their hidden bunkers. It was going to run short of its intended target—much shorter.
I want to hold Nicholas. I want to kiss my wife.
The reasoning of where the missiles were heading, and why—this yearning to be with family—took place in his mind for less than a second. By the time he’d finished thinking how much he wanted to feel Mandy’s warm skin against his lips, the blinding missile light winked out of sight over a distant ridge of trees five miles away. A few seconds later, the blue sky with its growing number of puffy grey contrails, was consumed in white.
Jake raised his hands instinctively to his eyes. The light was like knives, burrowing between his fingers, slicing through his eyelids. He turned away from it and collapsed to his knees. Jake was enveloped in white and almost complete silence. Moments later the truck’s engine sputtered to a halt.
No. I want to see them… I want—I’m only twenty-four and I don’t want to die.
He was on his feet again, or at least he thought he was, lurching forward to where he believed home was. He fell from the small hard trail he’d driven the pickup down and rolled into a ditch. He continued to roll and ended up in water. Jake tried to picture where he was as he gasped for air. His head went under. Ice cold. Sitting water. I’m at the southeast end of the farm. I’m in a low slough of sitting water. Winter snow melted and collected here less than two months ago. So cold.
Jake flailed about in the bottom of it, his hands clawed at the mud, and his knees and boots became mired in it. Like quicksand. Can’t work myself free. He needed to breathe, he needed to get his head out of the water and provide his lungs with fresh air. The water and mud he was trapped in was about to save his life.
Another rumble, this one much louder, rippled around and over top of him. Jake no longer felt so cold. His body was going into shock—or the water was warming up. A sound like a million stampeding elephants being slaughtered by a million screaming monkeys roared somewhere above. The water was becoming hot, boiling hot. With his last bit of remaining strength Jake pushed his body up.
The water and mud in his hair dried away almost instantly. The soaking fabric of his jacket and shirt steamed into his skin, and Jake fell forward. He pressed his burning face into the ground and sucked air between his teeth that scalded the inside of his mouth and the back of his throat.
Dad saw it happen. He saw this in his dreams over thirty years ago. Did he feel the pain?
The rumbling lessened. The charging elephants and screaming
