"Watch your mouth," Christina snapped back.
Richie took a slow bite of food while looking down. He couldn't stand church. He didn't want any part of it. Not a single one of his friends still had to go to church. It was embarrassing. Every week he would try to get out of it, and every week it would just start an argument. This particular morning he would try again.
"I can't go to church today; I got too much school work to do."
"Your school work can wait. If it weren't for church you'd be sleeping, so don't give me that," Christina said as she placed a bottle of syrup on the table.
"But─"
"All I ask is for one hour out of the week so you can set a good example for your brother and sister. That isn't asking too much," Christina interrupted.
"It ain't right, I shouldn't have to go to church if I don't wanna," Richie shot back.
"Just eat your food. It's not open for debate," she said sternly. Richie said no more, but it was clear he was upset.
"I agree with Richie," Tobias chimed in, with a mouth full of food. "Church is boring."
Christina pivoted around from the counter, holding her coffee mug, waiting for the fresh pot to brew. "Then I suggest you find something entertaining about it. Maybe try paying attention for once—and don't talk with your mouth full."
Tobias said no more. Christina looked to Richie. "See what kind of example you're setting? You kids need church. It's good for you. When you're adults─"
"─We'll thank you, I know. You say that all the time," Richie said, looking down at his plate. He barely had touched his food. His mind was elsewhere: school, his friends, his girlfriend, and his music.
"I say it 'cause it's true," Christina answered. "Now enough griping and eat your food."
Her children stopped talking; only emitting chewing sounds. Pop music from a portable radio sitting on the window played lightly, as a breeze swayed the thin curtains above the sink. The coffee was ready, and Christina poured a cup. She planned to surprise Terrance with coffee in bed but wouldn't risk bringing him breakfast; he was too messy.
She was tough by nature, but had grown even more vigilant over the years. Her role as a sometimes-single parent had a lot to do with it. Though there was some give when Terrance came back home, she ran the house unquestioned. Terrance's salary alone wasn't enough to pay all the bills, so Christina took a part-time job working the cash register at the Dollar Store.
Her life had changed considerably when, after a few weeks on the job, she was held at gunpoint and robbed by a local hood wearing a ski mask. It was near closing time when he strolled into the store casually and unexpectedly. He rushed the counter, stuck the barrel of the pistol directly against her head, and yelled at her to empty the register. Her life was on the line. She could see his eyes—bloodshot, frenzied—and knew that there was a good chance he would pull the trigger, even over what little money she had in the register. Her hands fumbled with the register because she was inexperienced in opening the drawer without first ringing up a sale. What she was doing wasn't working.
"Open the register, bitch!" he seethed. "Hurry the fuck up!"
His spittle sprayed her face as he pressed the barrel harder against her skull. She began to shake uncontrollably, unable to speak, while desperately trying to remain calm. Miraculously, the register drawer popped open after a few tries, not a moment too soon. Fear gripped her further when she looked into the drawer and saw that there wasn't much money inside. The other cashier had collected her till just hours before. All Christina could see were a couple of twenties, fives, and ones. The man took notice of the paltry score before him. He wasted no time clutching every last bill before he leaned in closer, his index finger wrapped around the trigger.
"Now where's the rest?" he asked.
"That's all we have," Christina said in shaky voice. Tears ran down her face. She knew it wasn’t true but just wanted the man to leave. The rest of the money was in the back office, but she feared that if he brought her in there, she would never make it out.
"Don't lie to me, bitch. Gimme the rest or I put a bullet through your head."
"I don't─"
"Last chance."
"I don't know!" she cried.
She was the only person in the store that evening, and there was only a slim chance anyone was going to come in and stop the man. There was no quick solution. He was either going to shoot her right there or take her into the office. She was frozen with fear, but her instincts told her that the back office wasn't an option.
"We got nothing left!" she persisted. "Sales were low today."
"Bullshit, this store makes money. I seen it. Now I want the rest or I'm-a kill you. That's a promise."
Just when she thought there were no other options, the entrance door chimed as a pair of clueless customers walked in. The holdup man was immediately spooked, realizing that he might be in over his head. A young black couple entered then stopped dead in their tracks when they saw what was happening. Christina nearly collapsed in relief upon seeing the couple, but she also feared for their lives as well as her own. Any steps the gunman made now would be irreversible. He took one look at them, and then rushed past and out the door in a fury. Christina fell to the ground on her knees crying.
"Damn, Miss, are you okay?" the male customer asked while approaching her counter.
Christina was too numb to respond. The police were called, and a report was made, but nothing ever came of it. The way Christina saw it; she would always be a sitting duck, a sheep. She was unable to go back to work for a couple of days but then realized that she had to. She couldn't live her life in fear. There was an inherent risk just walking out the door, so what difference did the Dollar Store make? Next time, however, she would be prepared.
After taking a few self-defense classes, she began to consider something more. She wanted a gun. And so began Christina's love affair with weapons. She soon purchased a 9mm handgun, a .22 assault rifle, and a 12 gauge shotgun within a year after the robbery. Strangely enough, it was not the weapons that had the most expense, it was the ammunition itself. Bullets had become a scarce commodity. The government had purchased billions of dollars’ worth of ammunition in an unprecedented sweep.
After purchasing her weapons and applying for a concealed weapons license, Christina felt as if she had made an important first step. Her greater concern, however, involved guns in the house, and the safety of her children. The guns were not toys, and she knew how pop culture glamorized them without teaching the responsibilities of owning a weapon. She decided to keep them locked in a large biometric gun safe hidden in a closet to which only she and Terrance had access.
Terrance's main concern was that she didn't know how to properly use them. She was moving too fast too soon. He insisted that she go to the range and familiarize herself with firing. That way he wouldn't worry about her as much while he was gone.
"You should take the kids too," he suggested in bed one night.
"I will, soon. They're not ready yet."
"At least take Richie. You can't protect them all by yourself."
"I said, I will."
Terrance didn't push the issue. In their twenty-two years of marriage, he rarely questioned her. He would support her just as he always did. At the time of their wedding, she was eighteen, and he was twenty-one. Now she was forty-two and he forty-five. The time had flown by. He didn't think he looked like a forty-five year old man when he looked in the mirror. He still had his hair and hadn't turned gray yet. His face had little wrinkles. He felt he could pass for thirty easily. But when he saw pictures of himself from a decade ago he could see the difference. He wasn't as fit and youthful looking. He had gained weight in his face and all around for that matter.
The stress of having and raising three kids had taken a slight toll on her features too: light bags under her eyes and wild hair, even though she wore it natural. Christina wasn't into wigs, weaves, or anything of that nature. She was still skinny as the day they met, and that, for the most part, wo
rried Terrance. His wife could never gain weight. She was always slightly underweight. It could have been the constant stress or something else. He just didn't know.
They lay in bed that Sunday night after a nice day together before he went back on the road the following day. Terrance gave his wife a kiss before going to sleep.
"Terrance?" Christina asked after he had turned over.
"Yes?" he asked, still facing away.
"You still find me attractive?"
Terrance turned back around and looked at her with surprise. "Of course I do, baby," he said, after giving her another kiss.
"It's just. You're gone so much. And I know that you're trying, but sometimes I wonder. I just need to make sure."
She would never outright accuse him of having an affair, unless her intuition told her something. But Terrance didn't seem like that kind of guy. However, she could never be sure. A man was a man, despite all his good nature. They kissed again, and Terrance leaned over to dim the light. He knew the option of sleep wasn't going to happen for a while. Christina needed some reassurance.
As African Americans in an African American neighborhood, Terrance and Christina felt somewhat alone in their prepper lifestyle. Other families they knew showed little concern about what the Robinsons believed to be dangerous times. Even at the Mt. Vernon Baptist Church they regularly attended, it was hard to bring up the subject of prepping to anyone. "You one of them doomsday people?" A church parishioner named Jacquelyn had asked them that during their after-church lunch.
There was simply no getting through to the people they knew, although that didn't stop them from trying. Eventually they had to look outside Atlanta. They searched online for other groups located at some short distance and came across Mark, Janice, and James. A relationship and bond was formed from then on. They trusted each other. They relied on each other. And each day, as the news got worse, they believed in each other. No one knew for sure when their trust would truly be tested.
The Prepper Pact
James, the Mosses, and the Robinsons all lived within practical distance of each other. James had initiated the prepper group by searching for individuals who wanted to pursue an investment into an ideal "bug-out" house he had found in rural Milledgeville. Many people were naturally suspicious of James' offer, but he eventually found some takers. Milledgeville rested squarely between Atlanta and Savannah, though Savannah—on the coast of Georgia—was farther away. Geographically it made sense to both the Mosses and the Robinsons once they investigated the investment. He would live in the house, maintain it, and stock it with food and supplies if they agreed to split the cost of the property and the mortgage. The location was ideal for James, as he taught classes at Georgia College with an M.A. in Contemporary History. James loved history and reveled in Milledgeville's past.
He had worked at Georgia College for more than five years. It had been nearly a year since he last saw anyone in his prepper pact. The last time they met was on a Labor Day weekend. The Mosses and the Robinsons took the drive to Milledgeville to check out the house and catch up with James and each other. For the Robinson kids, it was a simple barbecue with a friend of the family's they had never met before. Richie, Tobias, and Paula were curious about their parents’ newfound “friends.”
"Why'd we drive all the way out here just to hang with some old white people?" Richie asked Tobias, who didn't know.
Over the year, James heard less from his prepper pact, and wondered about them. They still sent checks for the house payments but seemed less interested in maintaining contact. It was nothing personal; they just had lives to lead. He just hoped they'd be ready when the time came.
Serious prepping took time and commitment, a challenge to anyone with a family and bills to pay. James lived an isolated life in the bug-out house, but he was happy. He'd always been somewhat of a loner and had been able to manage since the breakup of his marriage, and the distance from his son and grandchildren. He had his students. Each semester, he reveled in teaching the importance of history. He wanted them to realize that knowing history was the key to understanding the future. Knowing the past, James believed, prevented a society from making the same mistakes. Those who forgot the past were doomed to repeat it. It was for this reason James was an enthusiastic and dedicated teacher.
The Robinsons had no intention of ever moving to a place like Milledgeville for good. The Mosses liked Savannah, every bit as much as the Robinsons had their roots in Atlanta. Terrance and Christina were admittedly proud people. Their rundown neighborhood on the outskirts of the city had got progressively worse over the years, but they were reluctant to move. They discussed the matter one night after a recent string of shootings around the neighborhood.
"This is our home," Terrance said, "and we're not going anywhere."
"But I don't know if I feel safe sending the kids to these schools any longer," Christina argued.
"We're not moving, and that's final," he said. Eventually, they agreed to invest in the bug-out house because of its distance from the city.
"When everything goes down, we'll be safe. And if I'm not here, you best gather up the kids and take the car to the house without me," Terrance said.
She hoped the day would never come. Terrance was sure calamities were right around the corner, but each day passed and things seemed to remain the same. Terrance and Christina were both Georgia natives. Just staying financially afloat was enough for them. The prospect that everything could quickly change for the worse seemed very real, but they hoped they were wrong in the long run.
The Mosses, frugal as they were, considered the cost of living reasonable in Savannah. They liked the weather, and they liked living near the coast. They bug-out house looked to them to be a wise investment. Mark was uncertain about working with James at first, cautious about just giving their money to a stranger who lived in the woods. But after an exhaustive background check and meeting James in person several times, Mark warmed up to him. James seemed to be the genuine article. A man intent on survival. They made payments on the mortgage, and the group eventually paid off the entire cost of $66,000. To mark the occasion, the Mosses and The Robinsons celebrated over the Labor Day weekend. It was the last time they had seen each other. A year had passed since then, when suddenly the power went out, and everyone's worst fears came true.
When the Lights Go Down
Monday September 21, 2025 7:30 A.M. Savannah, GA.
Mark woke up and immediately felt anxious about the morning meeting with his boss. He looked over at Janice and saw that she was still sleeping. He wanted to wake her up to get some reassurance, but she looked too peaceful. Her shoulder-length dark hair was splayed over her pillow, covering the side of her face. She was lying on her side, facing Mark, with the curvature of her body steadily rising and falling with her breathing. He snapped out of his funk and placed a foot on the soft beige carpet below. The room was still dark, but one pull of the curtain over their large bedroom window, and sunlight would fill the room.
After two weeks of trying to make a good impression at work, he felt that everything was riding on a single morning coffee meet. He would soon be sitting across from his boss, and he wanted to be awake, alert, and on-point. His morning routine began with a cup of espresso, followed by a hot shower. By the time he was dressed, it was five minutes to eight. He had plenty of time and started to feel good and ready. He tucked his long-sleeved button-up shirt into his dress pants then flipped his collar up to adjust his blue tie. Janice peeked her head into the bathroom.
"Look at you all dressed up and ready to go," she said with a smile.
"An impressive sight, if I do say so myself."
Janice stretched. "Well don't take too much longer making yourself beautiful; I need to get ready for work myself."
Mark adjusted his tie then straightened it with a pull. "Don't mind me, do what you need to do," he said.
Janice pushed her way into the bathroom. "Move it, bub," she said. "Time's up."
He
circled around and pulled Janice closer toward him, holding her arms down. "When I'm rich and successful, you won't be able to push me around anymore," he said. He looked at his wristwatch, and then readjusted his tie. "Bathroom's all yours, honey, gotta go." He flew out of the bathroom, leaving Janice standing in front of the mirror.
"Good luck with your meeting," she said.
Mark ran back in the bathroom and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Sorry, love you!" he said, then flew back out.
"Love you too," she answered.
Mark grabbed his suit jacket from the bed, moved quickly downstairs. "Have a good day at work," he shouted.
"You too," Janice shouted back, and then she heard the door slam. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess. The light skin on her face was breaking out slightly into red bumps. She would have to put on an extra layer of moisturizer to control it. At twenty-eight, Janice was still young at heart and appearance. She examined her face and looked for any signs of age. Her hazel eyes shined in the light. Her thick and shapely lips could still be seductive when they needed to be. And her hair, originally brown, had been dyed black. She suddenly realized that she had to battle rush-hour traffic with less than an hour to get to work. She had to be there by 9:00 a.m. and it was already past eight.
She threw off her bathrobe and jumped in the shower, in a slight panic. She foolishly turned the shower knob too fast and was met with a spray of water that felt like ice. She tried to switch the knob in the other direction and was blasted with scolding hot water. "Damn it!" she said. Eventually she got it worked out.
Mark jumped into his dark blue, two-door Chevy Cavalier and backed down the driveway. Once he was on the road, he realized he had more than enough time to get to the coffee shop. It was 8:15, the coffee place was fifteen minutes away, and he didn't have to be there until 9:00. Now he would be too early. Mark wondered if being too early was worse. He didn't want to look as though he had been waiting too long for her. He had to remind himself to stop worrying, and that it wasn't a date.
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