Epilogue
“It's been three hundred and sixty eight days since the scourge touched all of our lives. Three hundred and sixty eight days since the government says a ten megaton, quote unquote, meteorite roared across the sky and blasted America's fourth largest city to kingdom come, killing hundreds of thousands of innocent lives. But is that what really happened? A whole year has passed, committees have been convened, inquiries have been conducted, even the president has resigned in disgrace, yet we still are no closer to the real truth. All we get are career bureaucrats talking out of both sides of their mouths and pseudo-scientists pulling convenient facts out of their collective asses like the stale candy corn my granny used to pull out the bottom of her purse and try to pass off on me as fresh. It sickens me to say it, but I think America got punched in the mouth by mother Russia, staggered backward, fell on its ass, and started crying like a little bitch!
That's right Joe. Why are the good honest patriots of this country allowing the Kinsdale administration—wait, I mean the Dowling administration—I can't keep up with the constant stream of rats finding excuses to jump ship to avoid prosecution. Why can't the Dowling administration give the American people a simple accounting of what happened during what is now being called the siege of lower Kirby? Now the White House is pushing the narrative that a major natural gas leak flooded the sewer system and then ignited, causing a series of underground explosions that destroyed the stadium complex, the waste treatment plant, and every other building for several square blocks. Thousands of refugees—innocent folks who survived the initial attack and followed their government's direction to evacuate to a place they were told was safe—were...were just incinerated...burned alive. I'm sorry. This is radio so you can't see me, but I'm crying right now. I'm crying for the precious lives that were lost. I'm crying for our city. Joe, I'm crying for our country because we have allowed evil to take hold of our great nation, and the only way I see us getting through this is if our so-called leaders allow God into their hearts and let Him deliver us from this great tragedy.
Well Suzanne, I've done all the crying I'm gonna do. Damn it, I'm an American citizen! I deserve answers and I demand action! My grandfather was one of the lucky ones, he survived this entire ordeal unscathed. He lives in the lower Kirby area. He said to me, Joe, I served in Vietnam. I know what napalm looks and smells like. Those were American fighter jets I saw flying over the city, firing napalm ordnance at our own damn citizens! He said Joe, I couldn't believe what I was seeing! But friends, he did see it. He saw it with his own damn eyes! He saw what the commie bioweapon did to people—turned them into deformed, crazed zombies! He saw all of it! And that damn cuck of a vice president, Kurt Dowling, gets on TV and tells my grandpa that he didn't see what he saw! Well, I'm tired of it! I'm tired of the lies, the redirection, and all the sleight of hand tricks the establishment uses to get us to believe their bull crap.
They have even stooped so low as to use today, this most sacred of days, the first anniversary of the largest attack on American soil since Pearl Harbor, to push their neo-progressive agenda down our throats. Ladies and gentlemen, they claim that this was nothing more than a natural disaster—a rock from outer space—that just so happened to cripple the energy nexus of our great nation while simultaneously poisoning a quarter of the population. They want us to believe that the scourge didn't happen, that the grotesque mutations and insane bloodthrist we observed were just a figment of our imagination, just mass hysteria brought on by the stress of experiencing such devastation, and fanned, they say, by the unsubstantiated conspiracy theories perpetuated by talk shows like this one. Suzanne, they’re calling us liars right to our frigging faces, and daring us to say anything about it!
I know Joe, it's unbelievable.
Well, I'm not afraid of the bastard's! I'm fighting back, god damn it!
Joe, please! The Lord's name…
You’re right Suzanne, I'm sorry. But it rankles my feathers that I live in the United States of frigging America, and I have to watch as our president plays footsies with those jerk offs at the U.N. instead of mobilizing the biggest, baddest, meanest, most feared fighting force in the world, and bringing the fight to those sick commie bastards!
Mine too Joe! And we are so blessed today to have a guest in our studio who’s been on the front lines of this war since day one and can give us some insight into what it is we can do to protect our values, our country, and our families from this growing threat. Captain Brady Lewis, welcome to the AR-15.
Thank you for having me, Suzanne and Joe. It's an honor to be among people who are willing to speak truth to power.”
“Ray!” Moji yelled from the master bedroom. “Can you please turn that off! How can you stand to listen to that nonsense?”
Ray touched an icon on his phone, silencing the loudspeakers in the kitchen. “Sorry babe,” he yelled back, “it was just background noise while I was fixing myself a sandwich.” He heard the quick steps of high heels on the wood floor.
“Well,” Moji said as she walked through the great room and into the kitchen area, “can't you put on some smooth jazz or R&B instead of that racket?”
“Whooo-wee! Girl, you looking fine in that little black dress! Turn around, let me take a look at 'cha!”
“Stop playing Ray!” Moji said with a faint smile. She put her hands on her hips and slowly turned her back to him. “Zip me up please.”
“With pleasure, my queen.” He placed one hand on the swell of her buttocks while the other tugged on the delicate zipper. “Is this a new dress? I've never seen it before.”
“Yeah, I haven't lost all the baby weight yet and none of my old clothes fit. I didn't want to wear a maternity dress to a memorial service.”
Ray pushed the zipper to its final destination at the base of her neck, then slid his hands around her waist and planted a long kiss on her cheek. “As far as I am concerned, that baby fat has settled in all the right places.”
“Shut up!” Moji said, giggling. “You acting like you want another baby.”
Ray spun her around so they were face-to-face, then he used his hips to press hers against the countertop. “Is that a challenge Mrs. Hillman? Because if it is, I'm up to it. We can skip this memorial service and get busy right now.”
Moji playfully punched his shoulder. “This is no time to be having those type of thoughts. We both lost people we loved very much last year. We need to get our minds right so we can properly honor their memories. Besides, we moved to this big house out in the country so we could get away from all the rebuilding chaos going on in the city and have some peace, quiet, and sanity. Just because we have a couple of extra bedrooms doesn't mean I want to fill them with children...yet.”
Ray smiled. “Ah ha, so there is a chance!”
Moji wagged her finger and smiled. “You're so bad!” A phone rang. The sound was coming from another room. “Oh no! I left my phone in the bedroom! I don't want it to wake the baby. ” She slipped away from Ray and hurried back into the master bedroom.
“That's probably the babysitter,” Ray said, mostly to himself. “As much as we pay her she should be able to handle a woke baby by herself for a couple of hours.” He smiled to himself, grabbed his turkey and cheese on wheat sandwich, sauntered into the great room, and sat down on the couch. Who am I kidding, he thought, memorial service or no memorial service, there's no way his wife is leaving this house unless little Crystal is full, dry, and dreaming. He took a bite of his sandwich. Well, given the circumstances, that's probably for the best.
Moji came walking out of the bedroom, the baby cradled in her arms and the phone to her ear. “...yes, yes. I promise she’ll be fast asleep before you get here.” She disconnected the call then sat down next to Ray. She had a concerned look on her face. “She woke up.”
Ray put his arm around Moji and used his other hand to tickle the belly of the three month old baby in Moji's arms. “Hello there, Miss Crystal Lara Hillman. How's daddy's little princess?”
“What? No baby, let's go to the memorial service. We’ve talked about this. Things have been a whirlwind since, you know, all the stuff that happened last year. Neither one of us has had time to process all of it and really let it sink in. We both need closure. Participating in the memorial service is a big part of that.”
Moji's bottom lip began to quiver. “But…”
“Baby, I promise, little Crystal will be just fine without us for a few hours. If you want, I’ll unzip your dress and you can take out one of those luscious breasts and give little Crystal a late afternoon snack. After a meal like that, she’ll probably sleep the entire time we're gone.”
Moji grinned. “And give you a little show, right?”
Ray laughed. “Is it my fault that the milk comes in those really exquisite containers?”
The baby began to fidget. Her mouth opened and closed, like a freshly caught fish thrown on the deck of a boat. Then her high-pitched wail filled the room.
Moji frowned. “See what you’ve done. Now I definitely have to feed her. Help me get this dress off.”
Ray threw his hand up in mock surrender. “Daddy's sorry Crystal, he didn't mean to make fun of your food.”
“Come on, stop playing around and help me. She's really crying now, I need to feed her.”
Little Crystal’s cries got louder, then began to oscillate and increase in pitch. Moji shot Ray a worried glance.
Ray unzipped Moji’s dress, then flashed her a half-hearted, nervous smile. “She just needs some of that delicious mother’s milk and she’ll be fine.” There was a tap-tap-tap sound on the wood floor. Tyson wandered in from the bedroom. Though it seemed unlikely, Ray thought Tyson had grown larger and more muscular in the year since the incident. Maybe he just looks bigger because he scares the shit out of me, he thought. Tyson stopped in front of Moji, stretched, then lay his impressive bulk down at her feet, never taking his eyes off of the warbling baby in her arms.
Suddenly, somewhere outside, far in the distance, a dog began to bark. It was an unnatural utterance, slow and steady, but continuous. Ray thought it would be the kind of sound a human would make if they were trying to bark like a dog while counting to ten. Soon another dog joined the first, then another, and then another, until the air was filled with a chorus of dogs, all barking in unison.
End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R. Tilden Smith is a part-time, fledgling author and full-time tech nerd who lives and works in Houston, Texas with his wife, children, and one very spoiled and lucky pit bull.
The Scourge Page 50