Half Past Midnight

by Jeff Brackett

  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.

  The traffic, though slow, was lighter and much more orderly than I expected. I had feared that the road might be packed bumper to bumper with a panic-stricken mob, ready to ram anything that got in the way. Instead, I actually had a motorist slow down to let me into the flow of traffic. I waved gratefully, then pissed him off when I opened a gap to allow Debra into the lane ahead of me. It wasn’t likely that he’d been offering a package deal, but I couldn’t afford to become separated from the van.

  After Debra maneuvered into the space, I gunned the little motorbike and whipped into a space in the next lane. Again I slowed, momentarily creating another break in traffic for Debra. In this manner, we quickly leapfrogged into the faster inside lane, moving along at a clipping twenty-five miles per hour, as opposed to ten miles an hour in the outer lane.

  Once we’d finished jockeying for position, I took the time to examine the occupants of nearby vehicles. Sitting on the motorcycle gave me a good vantage point. Most of the people looked grim and determined. I was surprised at how few appeared panicked. I had always been told to expect the worst of people in the event of an emergency evacuation. My survivalist acquaintances had assured me that in the event of such an emergency, most of the public could be expected to… well, the phrase “freak out” kept popping up.

  Well, there it was, “Crisis relocation,” as the government called it. Sure, everyone seemed frightened, and a very few looked seriously freaked out. But the wild-eyed, bullet-slinging maniac with the demented, insane laugh they had told me to watch out for didn’t seem to be present. It wasn’t for lack of opportunity, either. Nearly every other car I looked into had a weapon of some kind in evidence. From hunting rifles, to pistols or shotguns, it seemed everyone had a firearm within reach. Sure, this was Texas, but I’d never seen such a flagrant display of firepower before.

  As this dawned on me, my skin began to crawl, and I abruptly lost all of those earlier feelings of being excessively armed. Instead, I felt more like the punch line of an old joke.

  Just like me to bring a knife to a gunfight.

  June 13 / 4:23 p.m.

  After a long hour of stop-and-go traffic, we leapfrogged back to the outer lane. Our exit led to a narrow, two-lane country road that wound back through thick forest to the northeast. The traffic was sparse; in fact, it was nearly nonexistent. The road had many intersections and, one by one, all of the other vehicles eventually turned off, leaving us alone in the forest.

  We had traveled for about ten minutes without seeing another car when Debra honked the horn and began flashing her headlights to get my attention. Fearing engine trouble, I immediately pulled over and removed my helmet. If we lost the van, we would lose most of our supplies, as well as our best means of transportation. I listened for any unusual clanking or clattering as Debra pulled up behind me but my fears evaporated when she yelled excitedly out her window.

  “There’s a station back on the air!”

  I dropped my helmet in the grass and ran toward her, as she continued, “They said that L. A., New York, and Washington have been bombed.”

  Sticking my head in the open window, I saw Megan cranking the charger on the little radio. The volume increased as the nervous voice of the announcer pierced static-laden airwaves.

  “… — trollably. Washington, D. C. has received an undetermined number of hits. There is no official comment on the amount of damage the capital has received, but we are assured that the President is safe, as well as most of his staff.

  Citizens are urged not to panic, but we repeat, a state of emergency does exist throughout the United States, and citizens are advised that martial law is now in effect for the duration of this emergency.”

  This was followed by that irritating tone associated with the Emergency Broadcast System. A few seconds later, the message started over.

  “This is KKFM radio in Houston, Texas, operating in voluntary cooperation with the Emergency Broadcast System. This is not a test. We repeat, this is not a test. Citizens are advised that a national emergency has been declared. All persons living within the Houston metropolitan area are instructed to evacuate immediately. Military and law enforcement personnel are on hand to ensure an orderly evacuation. All National Guard and military reserve personnel are ordered to report for immediate active duty. Citizens are urged to cooperate fully.

  At ten fourteen this morning, local time, several high-yield nuclear devices simultaneously detonated above the United States. These warheads released a high-voltage electromagnetic pulse that has caused massive electrical and communication failures across the western hemisphere. There are unconfirmed reports of major nuclear attacks on New York City, Los Angeles, and Washington, D.C.. Both New York and Los Angeles, as well as many of their surrounding suburbs, are reported to be burning uncontrollably.

  Washington, D. C. has received an undetermined number of hits. There is no official comment on the amount of damage the capital has received, but we are assured that the President is safe, as well as most of his staff. Citizens are urged not to pan…”

  Megan gently shut off the radio, and we all stared at one another until Zachary broke the silence.

  “Are we gonna get blowed up?”

  Debra turned to where he sat at Megan’s feet and smiled reassuringly.

  “No, babe, we aren’t. We’re far enough away from the city to be safe if they drop a bomb on it.”

  “What about the ray-shin poison?”

  “Radiation. We’ll be safe after we get to Nanna’s house.” She turned to me and gestured back to the motorcycle. “But we’ll never get there if we don’t quit talking and start driving.”

  Her feigned confidence evidently reassured him somewhat, but a nervousness remained in his face. As I leaned through the window to kiss Debra, I saw Megan reach beside her seat and check the rifle.

  I remounted the motorcycle with a feeling of disquiet. Undeniably, the world was changing. But I couldn’t accept that it was changing into a place that forced my children to find comfort in weapons. I shuddered to think of t
he expression I had seen on my daughter’s face, the grim countenance of one who truly expected death.

  It was unfair, and I knew that I only had myself to blame. I had cultivated her interest in the martial arts, had taught her that she need fear no one, that each opponent had a weakness. No matter how strong he was, or how big, he was always vulnerable in some way.

  In effect, I had attempted to instill some of the old spirit of bushido. Now, how would she react? A bomb had no weakness to exploit. We evidently had an enemy, but who was it?

  You couldn’t fight an enemy you couldn’t see. She must have felt trapped and betrayed. Sure, she could cope, but it was going to be a rough transition.

  The road was soothing, almost hypnotic-an endless ribbon winding through the deep evergreens of the Texas Big Thicket. Only occasionally was the tranquility broken by the sudden appearance of another car from over a hill, or around a bend in the road. When this happened, I found myself quickly scanning the vehicle for any sign of a threat. Was the driver in control, or was he panicked? Were there any obvious signs of weaponry?

  Sure, I was a bit paranoid. I had been all day, since I had realized what that fireball was, anyway. But I had been a Boy Scout as a kid and couldn’t seem to keep their motto from echoing through my brain. “Be prepared.”

  I wondered if any of my old scoutmasters were prepared for this. I doubted it. Last time I had checked, they didn’t offer a merit badge in “Nuclear War Survival.”

  At any rate, a little paranoia seemed to be in order for a trip that could mean the difference between living for several years or dying a miserably slow death from radiation poisoning-something that I understood could take from several hours to a several months.

  Well, paranoia is one thing, I thought, but let’s not get morbid, too.

  For distraction, I concentrated on watching the road unwind ahead of me and tried to will any missiles away from the area. I was beginning to relax a little, enjoying the scenery as much as possible under the circumstances. Even the grief that had constricted my chest all day began to ease as I watched the trees go by.

  Before long, I was entertaining myself by searching for wildlife along the roadside. I had seen a few squirrels and a dead armadillo, when a Rabbit whipped around the curve ahead, coming straight at me. The tires and Volkswagen emblem on the hood were a dead giveaway that this was not an indigenous form of wildlife.

  I veered right and laid the motorcycle on its side, feeling my jeans shred as I came to a stop. I saved myself from an impact with the trees, but scraped my right leg from hip to knee. The Rabbit veered to its right, hit the opposite embankment, popped up on two wheels for a heart-stopping moment, then swerved back onto the road and nearly clipped the van before running off down the road.

  Struggling out from under the motorcycle, I heaped curses on the driver, his mother, and father; I even threw in a few reproductive suggestions that, unless he was extremely well endowed, would be anatomically impossible.

  Debra and Megan reached me at that point, with Zachary close behind them.

  “Are you all right?” my wife and I asked at the same time. We chuckled for a second. Comic relief was wonderful medicine. Then, I repeated, “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “Missed us by at least six inches. You’re the one that wrecked. Are you hurt?”

  “Just a little scraped up.” My leg began to throb.

  Debra sent Megan for the first aid kit, then she examined my leg.

  Zachary tugged on my sleeve to tell me in all seriousness, “You shouldn’t say asshole, Daddy. It’s a bad word.”

  At first I couldn’t wipe the stupid grin from my face, giddy as I was with adrenaline and relief, but I quickly got myself under control and agreed that it was indeed a bad word and apologized.

  Megan saved me from a further lecture from the perspective of a confused and nervous eight-year-old by returning with the first aid kit and another pair of jeans. Debra sprayed my leg with an antiseptic.

  “Ow!”

  “Oh, don’t be such a baby.” She slapped an adhesive bandage on the worst of the scrape and smirked when I jumped.

  “Hey! You know, that bedside manner of yours could use a little work. That freakin’ hurts!”

  She stood and planted a quick kiss on my lips. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you, Florence Freaking Nightingale.”

  Limping slightly as I walked back to the bike, I pulled it upright and checked for damage. It appeared the soft grass on the shoulder had saved both the motorbike and my hide from any serious damage. I was lucky the shoulder hadn’t been gravel. Now that I had time to think about it, the whole situation could have been much more serious.

  What if the driver hadn’t regained control before he hit the van? What if I had been about ten feet closer to the curve that had so unexpectedly produced the speeding automobile?

  Paranoia again. But who could blame me? In the last six hours, I had witnessed a mass exodus from the city of Houston as her citizens, myself included, abandoned ship. I had seen that most of those refugees were armed with deadly weapons. Worst of all, I had seen my father die and had been forced to abandon my own mother, not knowing where she was, or if she was even safe. And don’t forget, I added mentally, that you just got to see your life flash before your eyes when some asshole barely missed turning you into a hood ornament. I figured I was entitled to a little paranoia.

  “Debra, I think maybe we should be a little more careful.”

  “No kidding.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  Waiting to hear me out, she arched an eyebrow. I felt a little silly, but I was already committed. “You and the kids need to stay further behind me. That way, if another idiot comes around the corner like that last one, you’ll have plenty of space to maneuver. And I’ll slow down before I top any hills or round any corners in the road. All the trees and brush out here muffle most of the sound, so I can’t count on hearing oncoming traffic before it’s right up on me. Especially through my helmet.”

  I paused. This next one sounded crazy even to me. I could imagine how it would sound to my wife. Nevertheless, I added, “I also think we need a few hand signals. You know: stop, slow down, hurry, hide.”

  “Hide?”

  Again, I paused. “What if that guy had come flying around the corner ready to blast anything in his way?”

  “Oh, come on! Don’t you think you’re getting a little carried away?” She laughed nervously.

  “Not with everything that’s at stake here. What if he’d wrecked into the van and hurt the kids?”

  She was silent, thinking. I could see the conflict on her face. Pacifism was her chosen point of view, but threaten her children at your own risk. She would use any and all means possible to defend them. We’d had enough “what if” conversations in the past for me to know this about her, much like I had gone through with Megan. “What if someone kidnapped Zachary, raped Megan, hurt or killed any of us?” I knew from her answers that her point of view took the form of shades, not blinders.

  She finally acquiesced. “Okay, but we’ll also need a signal to ready the rifle.”

  We settled on six basic hand signals: stop, forward, slow down, hurry, hide, and danger. Megan already knew those signals. They were the same ones we used when she and I played paintball once a month.

  Upon seeing the “danger” signal, Megan would ready the rifle, and Debra would pull over, perpendicular to the road and ready to turn around if necessary. Zachary was to stay down and under no circumstances let himself be seen.

  We went over the signals a few times, making sure Debra knew them as well as Megan and I did, then continued on our way. According to the map, we had just over an hour’s drive.

  As we traveled, the van about a hundred yards behind me, I began to feel a little better about our situation. We’d had a frightening brush with disaster but, other than my scrapes and bruises, no one was hurt. And it had served to make us a little more careful. Besides, the odds o
f another accident occurring on roads as deserted as these had to be astronomical.

  Fifteen minutes later, I topped a hill in the road and stopped. In the little valley below, it looked like someone had beaten the odds.

  June 13 / 4:56

  The road down the other side of the hill was long and steep, one of those lengthy slopes that thrill children. It dropped nearly two hundred feet before rising again. At the bottom, two vans, a pickup, and a station wagon were scattered all about the roadbed. They were accompanied by six bodies. The whole area looked burnt, as if the vehicles had caught fire after the wreck.

  Shocked, I barely had the presence of mind to signal for the van to stop before removing my helmet and scanning the carnage below. There was enough room on the right side of the road for the van to pass, but I didn’t want the kids to see the bodies if it could be helped. I finally turned the Suzuki around and headed back to where my family waited in the van. Pulling up to Debra’s window, I suggested we stop for a break.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a pretty bad wreck over the hill there. Six-car pile-up. I need to see if I can find a way to get the van through.”

  “Let’s just take the van down and push them out of the way.”

  I shook my head. “Too much glass,” I lied. “Megan, would you and Zach make us some sandwiches, please? I’m starving. Your mom and I are going up the hill.” Without giving them time to object, I hustled Debra out of the van and up the hill. “Come on, I’ll show you why you can’t use the van to push.”

  As soon as we were out of range of the kids’ hearing, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t want to mention it in front of the kids, but there are some bodies down there. I need some time to move them out of sight.”

  She was silent for a few seconds. “How bad is it?”

  “Judge for yourself.”

  We topped the rise and looked down. She reached out and took my hand. “I don’t suppose any of them are still alive.”