Winds of Change

by Jason Brannon

  “Jerry’s gone,” Steven said, grabbing Pete by the shoulders to steady him. I don’t think Pete even heard what Steven was saying until the third or fourth time he said it.

  “Bush didn’t send our boys into Iraq in time,” Chuck muttered. “A month or so earlier and all this might have been avoided. One of them probably injected themselves with some sort of biological agent and walked right into the midst of us. They believe in suicide, you know? They think that sort of thing is honorable. But seriously, can you believe it? Terrorists here in Crowley’s Point? It seems surreal.”

  Lots of things seemed surreal at that point. Dozens of people had just walked to their deaths outside our store, and there was scarcely a trace of them left save for the small heaps of grayish-white sand that resembled oversized piles of cigarette ashes. I remembered something I had heard in church a long time ago about how all the Christians would be called up to heaven while the sinners were left behind at the moment of Christ’s return. I couldn’t help wondering if that might have been what happened. It frightened me to think that I was one of the ones who had no chance at a blissful eternity. Then, I realized the error in my analysis of the situation. Jerry, the plumber, hardly seemed like the righteous, devout type. If God, in fact, had called the faithful up to heaven, I doubted that Jerry would have been included in the rapture.

  “Maybe we’ve been invaded by aliens,” Pete muttered under his breath as he found a bench and sat down.

  That got Steven’s attention. “I saw a falling star earlier this evening. I went out back to smoke and was looking up at the constellations when something fell out of the sky.”

  “How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!” Pete, the plumber, added.

  “Where did you learn that?” I asked, more than a little surprised to hear him quoting scripture.

  “Sunday School,” Pete replied. “My grandmother used to take me when I was younger. I paid attention sometimes, usually when they were talking about angels and demons. The Bible is the best horror novel you’ll ever hope to read. At the time, I just thought it sounded cool.”

  “Maybe you and Steven can have a prayer meeting together or something when this is all over with,” Chuck said, taking every opportunity to get a dig in when he could. Steven ignored him and stayed focused on me.

  “So what are you implying?” I asked.

  “I think he’s implying that maybe it wasn’t a shooting star,” Vera Weaver suggested. “I tend to agree. Maybe this is God’s way of punishing the wicked. Like one of the Egyptian plagues.” Out of all of us, she was the one who seemed the least frightened or surprised by the things that were going on. Maybe she had some sort of inner wellspring of faith that kept her calm and cool. Whatever the case, having her around made me feel a little better about things. It was comforting to see that someone out of the group was in control of their emotions yet it was hard to believe that the source of my relief carried the Weaver name.

  Unfortunately, the other members of the family didn’t share their mother’s virtues.

  Jesse Weaver and his boys had resorted to cigarettes to calm their shaken nerves. Normally, I would have told them to put the Marlboros out. But these were unusual circumstances. The clouds of smoke drifted through the air like materialized ghosts. It wasn’t hard to envision those same clouds as the freed spirits of all those who had died the moment they left the confines of the store. I think we all watched the wispy curls of smoke drift off into the atmosphere for several minutes, needing any excuse we could find to give our minds a rest.

  Only the young married couple separated themselves from everyone else. They sat side-by-side on the service desk counter and whispered to each other when they thought we weren’t watching. They weren’t holding hands. They weren’t even touching. Only whispering. It all seemed a little strange to me since we had caught them making out in one of the hammocks out in garden center. Yet different people handled trauma in different ways I supposed.

  “We could use some organization here,” I suggested at last. “Let’s gather up everything we need for a meeting. I’d really like to talk without quite so much darkness. A game plan is what we need at the moment. I think we’ll have better luck coming up with one if we’ve got a little light on the subject.”

  “Arm yourselves, too,” Chuck spoke up. “Grab anything you can find that you might be able to use as a potential weapon if things get out of hand. A hammer, an axe, crowbar, whatever. If you can use it to crush someone’s skull into little bits, it might be a good thing to hang on to. Remember, we don’t know what we’re up against here.”

  I wasn’t pleased that Chuck had mentioned the possibility that we might have to fight some unseen invader for our lives. But I guess that was reality and it was better to be prepared for it than to have an enemy sneak up and catch us off guard.

  It didn’t take long for everyone to grab something comfortable that they could use to defend themselves with. The two Weavers boys grabbed battery-powered nail guns. Jesse Weaver found a scythe that made him look like the Grim Reaper. The married couple found two pitchforks. Pete the plumber armed himself with a twenty-pound sledgehammer and was immediately transformed into a reasonable facsimile of Thor. The old guy chose a machete. Steven and I both grabbed gas-powered chainsaws that were to our liking. But it was Chuck that took the cake. I couldn’t help laughing at him as he rejoined the group.

  His face was obscured by the oversized air mask that he wore over his mouth and nose. A thin ray of light emanated from the miner’s hat he wore. The tool belt around his waist looked like something out of a Batman comic, complete with utility items galore. In one hand he held a pick axe. In the other he brandished a blow torch.

  “What?” he said when he realized we were all staring at him in disbelief. “I just wanted to be prepared, is that such a crime?”

  While we had been waiting for Chuck to ‘suit up,’ Steven and I had rounded up flashlights for everyone. The light was somewhat of a reassurance, if only a small one. I suddenly felt like a boy at summer camp again. Only now, it was clear that there were things in the darkness to be afraid of, and the light had absolutely no effect on whatever it was that was reducing men to dust.

  “This sucks,” Jake Weaver said as we stood there with our flashlights, trying to act brave and hopeful even though we had no reason to be. “I would rather be any place else but here with these losers.”

  “Jake, hush,” his mother said. “This isn’t the time. Everyone’s doing the best they can under the circumstances.”

  “Who cares? I was supposed to meet Becky tonight.”

  “You wouldn’t have known what to do with her anyway,” Kenneth Weaver said with a laugh that was as big as his belly. “Now me on the other hand, I could have shown her some tricks. Shown her what kind of man the Weaver family tree really produces.”

  “Watch your mouth, fat boy,” Jake growled, making fists. “It’ll be hard to eat your weight in Twinkies if your lips are swollen shut.”

  “Enough,” Jesse Weaver roared, “both of you. I’m sick of listening to it.”

  The boys cowered in their father’s shadow. It was an impressive thing to witness in person, especially with Jake. Of the brothers, he seemed to be the more hardened of the two.

  A tall boy, almost as imposing as his father, Jake looked like a pale, gaunt scarecrow standing there in the dark. Like his father and younger brother, he had that same greasy mane of dingy blonde hair too. He had a growing reputation in town for doing some of the best tattoos around. Judging by the artwork on Jesse Weaver’s arms, the reputation was well deserved. I wondered if the reputation for vandalism was just as valid.

  Kenneth Weaver, on the other hand, looked like the poster child for fat kid jokes. He was obese in that white-trash sort of way, looking like a real life version of the Michelin Man with his fat rolls, pasty white skin, and three-day-old beard. It didn’t help matters any that he was wearing a white wifebeater with sweat rings around the nec
k and armpits. In true redneck fashion, the back pocket of his jeans had the tell-tale ring of a snuff can. He couldn’t have been any more trailer-park if he had tried.

  I didn’t have any trouble envisioning either of their pictures on Wanted posters in post offices across the country. The very thought of criminal activity reminded me of our malfunctioning generator. I wanted to believe that the Weaver boys had something to do with it, but I couldn’t with any real conviction. The malfunctioning generator had to be tied to everything else that was going on. And, crafty as they were, I was sure that they had absolutely nothing to do with the curse that befell anyone who stepped out into the elements. Which meant they probably had nothing to do with the generator either. The boys were professional delinquents, but they knew nothing about biochemical warfare, if that’s indeed what this was. And even if it wasn’t some sort of chemical agent, the boys were even further removed from the skill of Biblical curses. They were off the hook as far as I was concerned. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t cause trouble if given the opportunity. I just hoped Jesse Weaver kept his sons in line.

  “So when are we getting to leave this dump?” Jake asked. “Shouldn’t the National Guard be coming along soon?” It was almost like he hadn’t heard what his father had told him less than two minutes before.

  “At this point, it’s hard to say when we’ll get to leave,” I told Jake. “The bad thing is that there really isn’t anything we can do about it. Going outside right now is suicide. The way it’s looking, we might be here awhile. You’ll just have to get used to it, like it or not.”

  Although what I said had been directed toward Jake Weaver, the young bride took it to heart and immediately began to weep. I think most of us felt sorry for her. Her husband simply looked at her with disgust. It was like watching an aristocrat look down his nose at a homeless person. I don’t know what any of the other guys were thinking, but I wanted to crack the guy’s skull right there. He was about as cold and as lifeless as I had ever seen any husband be.

  Realizing that somebody needed to do something, the old guy went to her side and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder when it became clear that her husband wasn’t going to make any attempt to comfort her.

  “No need to do all that crying,” he said gently like a grandfather. “We’ll get out of this thing.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” the young woman wept.

  “And you can’t be sure that we won’t,” the old man said. “So let’s hope for the better of the two outcomes and pray for that. By the way, name’s Leland Kennedy. Pleased to meet you.”

  The young woman laughed through her tears. “I’m stupid. I know it. I’m in the same shape everyone else is in, and all I can think about is myself.”

  “Well who else would you be thinking about?” Leland Kennedy replied. “Certainly not that cretin of a husband.”

  “He’s not that bad, really,” the young woman said in her husband’s defense.

  “Well if I were a little younger, you wouldn’t have to worry about having a man around to comfort you when you needed one. I can promise you that. You may not realize it now, but Old Leland was quite the playboy in his day. You betcha I was.”

  Her husband scowled and crossed his arms. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, you old fool,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Old fool or not,” Leland said. “I know how to treat a lady. That seems like an area in which you’re deficient.”

  “I do fine,” the husband grumbled.

  “Fine is what causes your wife to end up in bed with another man,” Leland reminded him. “You’d better do a sight better than fine if you want to hold on to this sweet young lady.”

  “Piss off, Moses. Nobody asked you.”

  “Well, if either of you get tired of her, I’ll show her a thing or two,” Kenneth Weaver spoke up.

  “The only thing you’ll be able to show her is how to clean out a buffet,” Jake Weaver said. Kenneth’s face reddened like a beet.

  “Bite me,” he said, averting his eyes.

  “I’ve heard just about enough from both of you,” Vera Weaver said. “Your father told you both to hush. Now I’m telling you. Don’t make the same mistake again. Neither of you are too old to get a switch to your behind. And I know that there aren’t any switches available, but there are plenty of extension cords in this store that will work just the same.”

  Both of the boys looked ashamed. That sort of went with the territory when your mother called you out in public. Somehow, I didn’t think we’d be hearing anything from them for a while, at least until the sting of public humiliation wore off.

  “Maybe we should all introduce ourselves since it seems we may be here indefinitely,” I suggested, trying to change the subject, “get to know each other a little. It will help ease the tension.”

  Much to my surprise, everyone agreed.

  Of course, just about everybody knew Jesse, Vera, Jake, and Kenneth Weaver. Still they introduced themselves without incident. That in itself was a small miracle. We all knew Leland Kennedy by now too. Pete’s last name was Herbert. The young couple was Wayne and Ashley Richards. Then there was Chuck, Steven, and me.

  It was an odd family to be a part of, yet a family is exactly what it was at the moment, a nucleus of people who had to depend on each other until we found some way out. Somehow, given the eerie silence of the world around us, I knew it might be quite a while before escape was an option. In other words, this family was an indefinite arrangement, permanent until we died or another similar miracle rescued us from the winds of change that were blowing outside.

  For a while we just made small talk, hoping to skirt the real issues and divert our minds. Chuck and Steven talked about sports. The Weaver boys discussed new tattoo designs, heavy metal, the advantages of Red Man over Skoal. Ashley and Wayne Richards whispered to each other in sharp, muted bursts of conversation as had been their habit from the start. Pete and I talked about the plumbing problems in my house. Leland Kennedy kept to himself the whole time, listening to every word that was said. The problems around us ceased to exist for a few minutes, then Chuck went and got a bright idea which reminded us of everything we were trying so hard to forget.

  “The radios we sell use batteries. We sell batteries. Why didn’t we think of that earlier?”

  “Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the world was falling apart all around us,” Steven reminded him. “But let’s all make a note to self in the future. In case of Biblical catastrophe, never forget that the radios in Kingsley’s Hardware and Appliance use batteries.”

  “You don’t have to try and be cute about the whole thing,” Chuck said. “And it’s not Biblical. It’s Al Qaeda.”

  Chuck fiddled with the radio for several minutes before realizing that he’d put the batteries in backwards. Steven and I laughed at him. He never did things the right way, but he was determined where he wasn't skillful. The batteries went in correctly the second time. The speakers hissed with static and bits of random speech that were too garbled to be understood.

  Chuck rolled the dial through the gamut of stations. All we picked up was white noise and machine gun bursts of chatter, even on the stations that were normally strong enough to bleed through into several frequencies. We did hear someone call for help once over the airwaves. That was enough to make all of us groan and to fear for our own lives. Then the static quickly turned to silence. It was almost as if Chuck had turned the radio off entirely. But the little red light on the side of the radio glowed like a smoldering coal. The radio was definitely on, there just wasn't anybody left to broadcast.

  The silence was even worse than the news we had feared. It meant that this wasn’t a narrow window of disaster. Whatever had happened out in the world was affecting a surrounding radius of several hundred miles at least. Help wouldn’t be coming any time soon. And those that did arrive to lend a hand would definitely have their work cut out for them. There was no telling how long it would tak
e them to get to us.

  "Looks we're screwed," Jesse Weaver said, spitting a long stream of tobacco juice behind one of the cash registers.

  “Don’t think like that,” Vera chided her husband. “Try to be positive and have a little faith in God. Do something you’ve never done in your life and believe.”

  “I believe I’m going to die here,” Jesse said. “That’s what I believe.”

  "Just because we can't pick up any stations around here doesn't mean anything," Leland said, unwilling to let our hopes die such a swift death. "There's obviously something wrong with the atmosphere outside. That's probably what's interfering with the radio signals. I'm sure there are still people manning the stations. In fact, it’s very likely that people in the next state are eating supper, tucking little ones to bed, making love, doing everything they normally do. It's probably only a matter of time before somebody outside the radius of the disaster figures out that something's wrong and alerts the authorities. I'm sure we'll be all right if we just stay put. Somebody will come to our rescue eventually."

  "I don't like that approach," Steven said. "I'm not comfortable putting my fate in someone else's hands. I say we try and make contact with people in one of the businesses nearby. We stayed alive, why couldn't they have?"

  "We haven't even been trapped for two hours yet," Pete, the plumber, replied. "Why don't we give it a little time and see how it goes?"

  "I think Pete’s right," Jesse Weaver spoke up. "There's no need to rush out and get ourselves killed. If nobody comes to our rescue, we can always die later. I, for one, don’t like being stuck here any better than anybody else. But I’m not so impatient that I’m willing to risk my life when it might not even be necessary. If we wait one day and nothing happens, that’s one thing. If we wait an entire week and nothing happens, that’s another. Besides, if this is some sort of terrorist attack, then we might be committing suicide by stepping outside the doors. I vote that we stay put for now."