If the Light Escapes: A Braving the Light Novel

by Brenda Marie Smith

  Yeah, right.

  Ray, that scum-sucking prick. The fuck does he know about love? He wants to screw Alma is what he means. I could choke the life out of him and never think twice about it.

  He must’ve broken into Alma’s house—that’s how he found us. She left our address there for her parents.

  Devious, molesting pile of pig shit. How can I keep Alma safe from him?

  CHAPTER 25

  I meet Milo and Uncle Eddie at the door when they come in from patrol in the morning. I should ask them how things went the rest of the night, but I didn’t sleep for shit, my throat’s bruised, my arm’s wrenched, and I’m too worked up.

  “We need to go spy on those camo guys, like now! I have to know what they’re doing.”

  “Whoa. Settle down!” Uncle Eddie stops in his tracks, scrutinizing me, his rifle still in his hands.

  “Settle down? I’m not some kid making too much noise. This is serious, Eddie. That puke Ray is a camo guy, and he was watching our house. Our house! And Rick says the National Guard in Waco’s gone rogue and they’re killing people for food. How do we know these camo guys aren’t doing the same thing?”

  “Can I eat breakfast while we talk?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I made oatmeal. Alma’s sleeping in.”

  “You made oatmeal?” Milo smirks at me. “Didn’t think you knew how.”

  “Hilarious.”

  I slap oatmeal into bowls for them. It’s kinda lumpy, but who cares? Eddie dumps salsa on his oatmeal before he sits down. I guess he’s saving what’s left of the sugar for Alma and the kids.

  “So, seriously,” I say, leaning toward Eddie across the table. “We have to do something about these guys. They’re everywhere.”

  “Keno, the neighborhood is secure. Relax.”

  “How is it secure? We’re not a gated community with walls. There are like six streets people can just walk in on. They can come from the park, the train tracks—”

  “We have patrollers, and we caught Ray.”

  “But, Eddie, the guys I shot at came in from one end of the neighborhood while Alma and I patrolled the other end. People can come in through the backyards on our edges. Someone camped out in our park. This place is like a freaking sieve, it’s so leaky.”

  Eddie leans back, letting his spoon sink into his oatmeal. “What do you expect me to do about any of it?”

  I sit back, too. “I’m not trying to put it on you. But I think we should spy on them. How can I protect Alma and the baby from people who are obviously up to something if I don’t know what they’re up to?”

  “Spying is a bad idea. You’ll get caught. It’s better to keep to ourselves and lie low.”

  “Eddie, that’s not working.”

  “You went there once. I don’t want you going again, okay? You’re worried about being a dad. I get that. But—”

  I jump to my feet. “Don’t placate me, Eddie. You’re in denial. You want to think we’re safe, but you don’t know that. And I have to know.”

  Eddie locks eyes with me. “Go cool off. I’m exhausted and you’re ruining my appetite.”

  “So, I’m just a pain in your ass then? Not worth listening to?” I slump forward, shaking my head.

  Eddie raises up, bracing his muscular arms on the table. “Keno, there’s nothing else we can do! Patrolling is all we’ve got!”

  Mom scurries down the stairs. “What’s going on? You woke me up.”

  “Ask Eddie.” I stomp out the back door.

  I plop into a chair on the patio, squeezing my head between my hands. Eddie’s acting like some comfortable old middle-class guy who doesn’t notice the world burning around him as long as he’s got what he needs.

  I get that he’s trying to protect us by keeping us at home. But that won’t work anymore. I wish I could get him to see that. He’s in charge of security, and he’s my elder. I’m supposed to do what he says, but if he doesn’t snap out of it, I’ll have to stop.

  Eddie’s in love—that’s what it is. He’s missing the urgency here, the anxiety. Finding Phil was like a godsend to him. Being in his forties when he finally finds real love, Eddie’s head is on another plane.

  Shit, I shouldn’t have to apologize for this, but I’d better. I go back in the house.

  “I’m not done talking about this, but I’m sorry for yelling at you.” I don’t look directly at anyone. “Alma’s supposed to patrol, but I don’t think she should. She was too tired to make breakfast. So, I’m taking her shift and mine, and I’ll be home for dinner. Alma might be mad when she wakes up. She wants to keep doing everything she’s always done, but I—”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Mom says. “I went through it, too. When you’re a hard worker like Alma is, being pregnant can mess with your head.”

  I sigh and kiss Mom on the cheek. “Eddie, can I take your rifle? You reloaded it, right?”

  “Sure,” Eddie says. “Not my rifle anyway. Listen, those guys you’re so worried about? You have to remember they’re not lucky like we are. They don’t have someone like Nana to lead them, someone who had a stockpile of food.”

  “I know that. That’s exactly why they worry me. If you don’t have a leader with morals and brains, you get chaos.”

  I’m not in the mood for family chit-chat tonight. I’ve been patrolling in the hot sun all day and working myself into a state.

  After dinner, I take the radio to the patio. I need to know more about the militia in Waco, and I haven’t listened to Rick for days.

  Tonight, I come in on what sounds like the start of his broadcast.

  …comin’ to you from the boonies of Central Texas…

  “Alma? Rick’s on,” I holler. “Might want to come hear this.” Milo, Mom, and Alma hurry out the back door.

  Sorry I missed some broadcasts, folks. Been layin’ low, watchin’ from my roof for that rogue National Guard—that gang of murderin’ thugs is more like it. Mikey Boggs saw a couple dozen of ’em in the parkin’ lot at Clifton High. I ain’t sayin’ how close that is to me.

  I already decided if they come for me, I’m fightin’ back. Losin’ my farm would be the death of me anyhow. Might as well take some assholes out with me.

  What’s all that racket? Hold on.

  Alma sinks into a chair with her hands over her mouth. We’re all staring at the radio like it’s a TV or some shit, and we wait and wait.

  Christ on a cracker! The Guard’s at the Jackson place a half-mile away. From my roof, I saw a buncha guys along the main road. And now I’m watchin’ shootin’ and flash-bangs through my window. Looks like they got tear gas, too.

  I shouldn’t be broadcastin’ and callin’ attention to myself, but I came on to warn y’all to build yourselves some walls fast. Gather your weapons, because this is war now, and the little people are losin’.

  I gotta say goodbye to my mom and dad over in Belton, if they’re still alive. And to my sister Georgia in Temple and her kids. Y’all are the best family any guy ever had. I’m sorry for all the things I done wrong in my life. I shoulda moved to a bigger town when y’all did. But I like it out here in nature; more room to roam. I like the quiet.

  Ain’t no quiet anymore. I’m gonna stick this mic out the back door to see if y’all can hear the gunfire. The Jackson family ain’t got a prayer. All those kids… Oh man. Sorry, I can’t help cryin’. I love those kids, and I really ain’t ready to die.

  Rick stops talking, but we hear him choking back sobs and moving his mic, and then we hear a door open and what sounds like a war movie in the distance. Alma’s about to tear a hole in my arm with her fingernails.

  I gotta get outta here. Bye, y’all. Just gotta hide this radio—shit, they’re in my garden.

  Rick hushes for minutes. My heart’s thrashing so hard. Then there’s a huge cracking sound, like a door breaking, and men shouting garbled wor
ds.

  “Y’all just busted into my house on live radio. Ain’t that somethin’?”

  I picture Rick grinning like a maniac.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “No! Don’t!”

  Gunshots ring out.

  Milo leaps to his feet, screaming, “Nooo!”

  The mic lets out a piercing squeal that splits the night, then goes silent.

  We’re all crying. Milo’s hysterical.

  “We’re fucked!” I jump to my feet and kick the first thing in my path—a clay pot that sails above the patio and hits the roof post, shattering into sharp shards and tiny slivers, sending a cloud of red dust and green shoots of lemongrass into the air, and cracking the face of the lizard god.

  Alma’s gone to bed, but the look on her face after I broke her mother’s pot won’t leave me—a mix of sadness and horror and more than a little anger. Of all the things on this patio, why did I have to kick the one thing that was so important to Alma?

  I’m out here with only candles for light, trying to glue the pot back together, like a 3-D jigsaw puzzle. It’s mostly all here, but the glue has oozed out and hardened on the outside of the pot, making the whole thing a godawful mess, especially where I wedged in thin little scraps.

  I’m skeeved out at myself for kicking the pot, I’m distraught about Rick getting killed, and I’m half-superstitious that I’ve pissed off Quetzalcoatl and he’ll come for revenge. But worse, I’ve hurt Alma, and that’s unforgivable.

  Mom comes outside and stoops down to inspect the pot. “You did a good job, Keno.”

  “No, I didn’t. Look at those globs of glue. It’ll never be the same.”

  Mom pats my shoulder with her lips pinched together. She knows I’m right.

  I wipe the pot down and set it on the patio table, and then I put more dirt in it and replant what looks salvageable of the lemongrass. I add a little water. The pot is as put-together as I’m capable of getting it, and I don’t like the rock-hard stare in Quetzalcoatl’s eyes.

  CHAPTER 26

  When I wake up the next day, Alma’s not in bed. I lie here trying to forget the murder we witnessed, but I can’t. We’ve been listening to Rick since the sun zapped us. He was our only outside news, and he was our friend.

  His murder’s not gonna leave my head and neither is Ray and his stalking, so I get up and bring them with me. The house is airy like the doors are open, and I smell eggs cooking. I bound downstairs, famished, but outside to the south, the sky is gray like gunmetal.

  From the middle of the yard, I watch that sky grow darker by the minute. Strong winds are blowing up from the south-southeast, from the Gulf of Mexico. This is storm weather, big storm weather. For a minute, I get excited from the storm energy and the idea of a good rain, but that sky looks threatening as fuck.

  I wolf down breakfast and head to the street to find Jack. We watch the storm barreling our way. Deep thunderheads cover the southeastern sky. They’re starting to fill the whole sky while they go from gray to slate blue with a few spots that I swear to God are black.

  “Jack, what about our crops? Can we protect them before the storm starts?”

  “I don’t see how.” Jack seems scared, and that scares the crap out of me.

  We get these crazy storms some years, killer storms with tornadoes and hail and horrible floods. I’m not worried about rising water. We’re on some of the highest ground in Austin. Half of Texas would have to fill up with water before rising floods would get to us.

  But water rushing across gardens as it drains downhill and rainwater pummeling our crops and soil—that shit could wipe us out completely. We can get as much as two feet of rain in little more than a day, and it seems to happen every few years.

  The wheat! Hard, fast, continuous rain could wash the wheat right out of the park. A hailstorm could end it. The park’s not exactly hilly but rising and dipping ground. Low spots can turn into creeks that will carry the wheat away. Boggy ground can rot it at the roots.

  Our next-door neighbor June comes through her gate and reaches us fast for an old lady.

  “We better cover some of these crops quick,” she says before she’s quite here. “Weigh down the edges of tarps and blankets with rocks to keep them from blowing away.”

  “Don’t we need to be sure the veggies get rain on them?” I ask.

  “Oh, they’ll get plenty, through the blankets, up from the soil. Some covers will blow off before it’s over. I was raised on a farm in Kansas. This looks like what we called a gully-washer.”

  A gully-washer? Shit, that sounds ominous.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about the corn,” June says. “If anything can stand up to hard rain or hail, it will be the corn.”

  “What about the pinto beans?” Jack asks. “The Mint’s yard is huge. Not sure we have enough blankets to cover it.”

  “Pinto beans are pretty sturdy, Jack. Gardens with no houses on the south side of them, those are the most important to protect. And if the pinto beans don’t make it, we have time to grow more before the first frost. Concentrate on tender vegetables—tomatoes, peppers, squash. I’ve got to go take care of my garden. Charlotte’s already out there.”

  June rushes away, and I holler out, “What about the wheat?”

  “Pray,” she says.

  “That’s not hopeful,” I say to Jack.

  “Nope, but it’s all we’ve got. Start praying. You go east. I’ll go west. Tell neighbors what June said. We need to move fast.”

  “Got it.” I run into our house first and tell the family. Alma has fear in her eyes, but I see her fierce bravery, too. I get Uncle Eddie to take care of our garden, and Mom volunteers to help Alma with the herbs. I take Milo with me. Phil comes to our front door as we’re rushing out, and I send him to the next street over, Mint Lane.

  The wind’s picking up and blowing leaves around. I see lightning not far southeast. Part of me starts to panic, but my brain kicks into some kind of emergency mode, calming me and clearing my mind.

  “Milo, go to Silas’s first, then head down the block on that side of the street. Do you know what to say?”

  “Well, yeah?” He looks at me like he can’t believe I asked him that. I blink, and he’s already halfway to Silas’s front door.

  I take off east past June and Charlotte’s to the Zizzos’, but they’ve already been covering their garden. They send their kids with me to help Mr. Bellows—he’s old, and he’s got most of the peppers behind his north-facing house. Then I run to every house on this side of the street.

  Pretty soon, every neighbor is in their yard, throwing sheets, tarps, and blankets over as many crops as they can, finding rocks and other stuff to hold down the makeshift crop covers. I help push potato barrels and food pots into garages. Neighbors are running around like a stirred-up nest of ants.

  I send Max and Danny to do the heavy work for June and Charlotte. I race from neighbor to neighbor again, asking if they need help. Milo’s across the street, looking like he’s doing the same.

  Rain starts falling, not fast at first but getting faster. And then I think, Jack! The tomatoes! I holler for Milo to come with me, and we run two long blocks to Jack’s house, huffing and puffing with our clothes getting wet. We find Jack alone in his backyard, wrestling with a blanket he’s trying to throw over the tomatoes. He’s way more out of breath than we are. The rain’s getting louder as it strikes pavement and rooftops.

  “Sit down, Jack!” I holler. “Milo and I have got this!”

  “I’m fine!” Jack yells, like he’s pissed. “Grab the other end of this blanket. Milo, bring us piles of rocks from the edge of the yard.”

  Now the rain’s gushing in torrents onto our heads and bodies and blankets and crops. The wind keeps whipping this blanket and also turning up the edges of another that Jack already threw down. I remember I’m supposed to be prayi
ng, like I’ve got time for that.

  Milo brings us loads of rocks that Jack and I place on blanket edges and push into the mud.

  “Milo, put more rocks on the edges of that other blanket. Jack, got any more blankets?” We’ve only covered half the tomatoes and not that well.

  “On the patio,” Jack says, raising up and breathing hard. It takes us a while. We’re sopping wet with the rain pounding so hard it hurts. Rivulets of water drip off our brows and noses and out of our hair, but we finally get the tomatoes as well-covered as seems possible.

  “Let’s go to our house and get dry,” I say. “If we move the grill up against the house, maybe we can still cook even in the pouring rain.”

  When we get to our house, I say, “Go on in. I need to check the wheat.”

  Rain is drubbing me. It’s washing fast through the streets now. I don’t see any people outside except Silas and Bobby rushing to their separate houses, soaking wet stragglers in the pounding rain. Lightning’s almost on top of me; thunder keeps startling me.

  I run like I’m on fire down to the park and the wheat field. Before I’m quite there, I already see wheat drooping from the pounding it’s taking. I tell myself that plants sometimes sag from rain and they’ll perk up when it stops. But this idea’s not cheering me up. This wheat looks fucked. Some of it is leaning almost to the ground. Furrows are filled with rushing water, undermining the wheat at its roots.

  Mother of God.

  I drop to my knees on the wet ground, and I pray my heart out, even though I’m not sure I believe in God. I pray the only prayer I know, shouting it out so I can hear myself above the roar and crack of the storm: “Jesus, please save us! Jesus, please save us!” over and over again.

  Then down come big hard rocks of icy hail.

  I race home like a streak, plowing through rushing street water and ruining my already-ruined shoes, covering my head with my hands to protect it from hail. My hands are getting pelted and it hurts. Clusters of icy hail are everywhere.