by A. K. Meek
Just like downtown, the school was total chaos. A siren mounted on a pole at the top of the gym turned on, sending another wavering blast. Parents moved with a renewed sense of panic.
Tom screeched against a curb in the circular bus loading zone. He shot from his vehicle, headed for the main entrance. Johnny followed him inside. They were welcomed by screaming parents and crying children. Backpacks littered the floor, having divulged their contents of books and papers for everyone to trample.
The two turned a couple corners, heading to Ms. Barker’s classroom.
A teacher yelled for his class to keep their heads down. He’d already lined them up in the hallway. The children cowered, bodies bent with tiny hands over heads, like a tornado was about to rip the roof off.
Who knew what was coming? In the past thirty minutes, Johnny had already heard of bombs, invasions from Russia, and aliens from space. No one knew anything, but everyone knew something was happening. And that made it more terrifying.
Students were crammed into Ms. Barker’s classroom, an inner room with no windows. Kids hid under desks, huddled in groups. Many howled for their parents. A couple of the more daring laughed and peeked around, thinking it all an exciting game. There are always those who laugh when facing an uncertain, terrifying future. Even children.
“Daddy!”
Abby, his six-year-old daughter, saw him before he saw her. She fought to crawl from under the desk where she had been safely tucked. Her older sister, Annie, struggled to hold her in place until she saw why she was fighting to get away.
One of the teacher’s aides that had been working feverishly to keep the kids calm started to hush the girls, but when she saw their father, allowed the girls to get up. She was happy to have two less children to worry about.
“Daddy,” Annie said as she reached him. “They said we’re being attacked. Who’s attacking us?”
Before Johnny could respond, a fire alarm split the air, drowning the civil defense warning.
Kids screamed as sprinklers sprayed a fine mist over the class. Emergency lights strobed a dizzying white light. Johnny needed to get out of here. The lights, the alarm, the screaming. His head felt like it was getting ready to split.
He needed a drink.
But he grabbed his daughters’ hands and rushed them from the room into the sprinkler-soaked turmoil of the hall.
Fortunately, they made it out of the school relatively easily.
They raced across the playground to a chain link fence that separated school grounds from the surrounding community. The gate was locked, but there was enough give to the chain that he could flex the gate and squeeze his daughters and his own narrow frame through.
Here, in a suburban community of old ranch style houses, the streets were relatively clear. Most everyone was probably already hidden away inside their homes, or in their basements, like rats.
Annie was able to keep up with him, but Abby couldn’t. He scooped her up in his arms. In a block and a half, he turned onto Magnolia street, and three houses down was his six hundred square foot, two-bedroom, Habitat for Humanity home.
His brother, being sheriff, was able to pull a few strings and get him bumped to the top of the list. Johnny was happy with the free house, until he found out the free house wasn’t entirely free. That was why he had to take a job with Bob’s construction company. His brother didn’t tell him he’d have to pay for it in sweat.
They entered and Johnny threw his house keys on the three-legged foyer table. Adrenaline had drained him to the point he wasn’t sure if they were being bombed or if it was all imagination.
His daughters scrambled to their room and immediately set out to reinforce their fort, a blanket stretched across their bedposts. A makeshift fallout shelter.
He went to the fridge and grabbed a couple of cold Buds.
If this was the end of the world, what could be done? He couldn’t change anything. Better to forget it’s even happening.
Dropping onto his couch, he turned on the TV, popped his bottle, and guzzled half of it in one long, well-practiced swallow. He belched so hard his chest hurt.
A red banner scrolled across the screen. A national emergency. The news anchor, a man with over-styled hair and an orange glow, shuffled creased papers.
“These reports are unsubstantiated, but we want to pass as much information to you as possible—” he paused, pressed a hand against his earpiece, listening intently. He nodded. “We’ve just had reports over the wire that all communications with Los Angeles have ceased.” He took a second to catch his breath and slow down. His words were tripping over each other. “…is reporting a flash over Los Angeles, seen by multiple witnesses. That makes the fifth—”
Power in the house shut off. The sirens stopped.
A power failure.
Finishing the first bottle, Johnny cracked the other and guzzled it down. He steadied himself on his couch arm as he got up. He retrieved the rest of the case and went back to the couch. Better drink them while they’re cold.
The hot Georgia day and his dehydration (and no doubt the adrenaline) allowed him to buzz quicker than normal. As he popped another bottle he figured if the apocalypse was happening he could think of no better way to bow out of this lousy world than with a beer in one hand, a remote in the other.
Idly, he clicked the buttons but the television didn’t respond. He knew it was out, but it was worth a try anyway.
Johnny Cassidy took a drink, spilling a portion down his stubbly cheeks and chin. He closed his eyes and prayed that he would already be passed out when the apocalypse came.
And that it wouldn’t hurt.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
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