Half Past Midnight

by Jeff Brackett

  I thought for a moment on the wisdom of telling him what was going on. How could I explain to a child that there were people in the world who wanted to kill each other because of differing political or religious beliefs? That those people were so wrapped up in the “causes” they promoted and fought for, that they no longer cared about anything else, including the lives of their fellow human beings?

  “Go get Megan, and both of you come out to the garage.”

  “Yes, sir,” and he ran off to get his sister.

  I turned and stepped into the garage. By the light of the garage windows, I could see that Debra was indeed upset, though worried seemed a more accurate term. I also saw that she had evidently been working at a frantic pace, loading the back of our minivan with any item that would be of use during the coming crisis. Nearly every bit of space from the front bucket seats to the open hatch was filled-garden tools, food, clothing, food, camping supplies, more food. Knowing my wife, I was certain she had thought of everything.

  There was an area of about two feet of empty space before the hatch, and she was busily filling that with the survival books, magazines, and microfiche books I had collected over the years. The rest was totally packed. I was gratified to see some of the worry leave her face when she saw me in the doorway, relief altering her expression. Setting down the sack, I walked over and opened my arms. We held each other for a moment, needing no words, simply relishing the feel of one another. I felt her shoulders shake as she sobbed quietly, and I pretended not to notice. She hated losing control of her emotions.

  “I was so scared. At first it was just the electricity, but then Megan noticed the phones were out too. So, I went outside to see if the Thompsons had heard anything, and I saw the sky.” She sniffed. “I remembered what you’d said back when you were hanging out with those survivalist crazies.” All of this was said with her face still buried in my shirt. “I guess maybe they weren’t so crazy after all.”

  “I guess not.” I stroked her hair.

  She took a deep breath and stepped back, discreetly wiping her eyes. “You all right?”

  “So far, so good,” I replied dryly. “The hard part is still ahead, though.”

  She nodded.

  “I take it you haven’t told the kids what’s going on yet.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t want to scare them, but I’m pretty sure Megan’s guessed anyway. She’s read most of that science fiction garbage you keep around. And she’s smart enough to know I’m not just packing for a weekend at Nanna’s.”

  I smiled. “Smart enough to keep quiet about it around her little brother, too. He’s so hyped about seeing your mom again that he hasn’t got a clue there’s anything more serious going on.” I paused. “Listen, they’ll both be here in a second, and I want to tell them. I mean, even if Megan’s figured it out already, she deserves to hear it from us. And Zachary may be young, but it looks like he’s going to have to grow up in a hurry.”

  She thought for a minute and nodded acceptance just as Zachary came charging into the garage, followed a moment later by his older sister.

  At sixteen, Megan was every bit as pretty as her mother had been at that age, though a few inches taller. Not that her mother wasn’t still pretty, but maturity brings a different beauty. Debra, despite her personal opinion, was a gorgeous woman. Megan, on the other hand, was a beautiful girl.

  “Hi, squirrel bait.”

  She tentatively returned my grin, as well as the insult. “Hi, scum wad.”

  This had been a tradition in our family since she had been about seven years old. She and I had begun to derive a perverse pleasure in making fun of one another. I suppose that showed my level of maturity… or lack thereof. It had actually gotten so bad that my wife, slightly perturbed at the prospect of going through life with a daughter named “Squirrel bait” and a husband whose name changed without notice from “Scum wad” to “Scuzz bucket” or “Monkey toes”-I do have extremely long toes-had threatened us with bodily harm if we didn’t curb our insanity. Out of deference to her mandate, we thereafter confined our odd pastime exclusively to Saturday mornings.

  For the next few years, Saturday mornings became an endless barrage of name-calling, from the borderline offensive to the ridiculously funny.

  However, as Megan got older, she became aware of the fact that she was becoming a young lady and decided our Saturday morning ritual was too childish for someone of her maturity and sophistication. The insults tapered off to gradually be replaced by the expression that only a teenage girl can give-that rolling of the eyes that asks the Gods That Be what she had ever done to deserve such an immature parent.

  The fact that she now returned my jibe, rather than ignored it as usual, told me she was probably pretty frightened. It meant she felt more like Megan, the little girl, than Megan, the all-powerful teenager.

  “Okay, you guys, we need to talk.” I knelt so I would be at Zachary’s eye level and looked up at Megan. “Megan, I think you’ve already got a pretty good idea of what’s going on, don’t you?”

  Her striking brown eyes showed worry but little fear as she nodded. “I think so.”

  “Smart girl.” I held my hands out to her brother. “Come here then, Zach.”

  He came over and sat on my raised knee. His normally cherubic face was totally serious, evidently sensing the tension that the rest of us were trying to hide. “What’sa matter, Dad?”

  “You know what a war is, don’t you, Zach?”

  “Yeah, it’s when ever’body shoots each other and stuff, like on TV.”

  I almost smiled. “Close enough. Okay, listen up. This morning, a real war started between another country and ours. I don’t know yet who we’re at war with, but we have to get to your Nanna’s house so we’ll be safe until we know more.”

  He thought about it for a second. “Why won’t we be safe here?”

  “Do you know what a nuclear bomb is?”

  He shook his head. “Huh uh.”

  “A nuclear bomb is a bomb that can blow up a whole city and poison the air all around it with radiation.”

  “What’s radiation?”

  “Well, it’s… uh, it’s a kind of poison that works real slow so that you don’t know you’ve been poisoned for a long time.”

  “Can’t a nukilar bomb hurt us at Nanna’s?”

  “Nuclear.” I automatically corrected. “And yes, a nuclear bomb could hurt us at Nanna’s. But they probably won’t drop one there.”

  “Why not?”

  Could he understand the concept of priority targeting? Debra saved me from attempting to find out. “Because they don’t know where she lives.”

  That apparently made sense to him. After a few more questions, he said he understood. I doubted it, but at least the effort had been made.

  Our talk completed, Debra began telling the kids what still needed to be done before we could leave. She issued tasks like a commanding officer, and the kids took orders like two soldiers as I took care of a little task of my own.

  Our backup vehicle was an old, very old, dirt bike that I needed to check over. I’d be riding shotgun for the van on the motorcycle for a couple of reasons. The bike was a much more economical vehicle than the van when you considered gas consumption and, since it couldn’t fit in the van, it had to be ridden. Also, if the traffic turned out to be as bad as we anticipated, we could probably use it to open up a place for the van between vehicles that might be reluctant to let people in.

  As soon as I completed my check of the bike, I grabbed an old military surplus ammo case from my tool cabinet. I hesitated a moment, considering my actions. As long as the case remained closed, the contents were protected from EMP. Once I opened it though, I risked losing the treasure inside if another warhead were to explode.

  Well, they’re not doing me any good locked away. I took a deep breath and opened the case. Nestled inside were two cloth-wrapped bundles. The cloth kept the contents from coming into contact with the metal sides of the case
, which would in theory have kept them protected from this morning’s pulse that had fried just about any electronic system it touched. Almost reverently, I removed the first bundle and reclosed the case. I unfolded the cloth, and held the little radio up for inspection.

  It was a combination AM/FM/weather radio and flashlight that powered off of either the built in solar cells, or an attached hand crank. I cranked the handle for a few seconds and watched the charge indicator begin to glow. After a few seconds I turned the radio on. There was nothing but static, but at least it worked. I exhaled with relief, only then realizing that I’d been holding my breath for several seconds.

  I carefully re-wrapped the radio, placed it back in the protective ammo box, and checked the second radio. It also passed inspection, and I grinned. I placed the case with the spare radio in the back of the van before setting its unwrapped brother in the front seat.

  With that task done, I joined the “troops” in taking orders from Debra. I had been with her long enough to know she was in her element: chaos. One of her greatest assets was her organizational ability. When she finished with the mess, it would be reconstructed into an evacuation as well organized as the local library.

  First, I went back into the house to retrieve the bucket and rifle. When I returned to the garage, Debra eyed the rifle with distaste. While she had always been pretty pacifistic, she’d never interfered with my martial arts training, even when I had opened a small school and taught classes every other weeknight. But she had never been big on firearms and refused to allow them in the house. I’d never pressed the matter as I had other options in the way of home defense.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Dad.” The reply brought the grief back to the surface. Debra noticed immediately and started to question me, but desisted when I shook my head. I couldn’t trust myself to talk about it yet, especially with the kids in the next room, and she knew me well enough to back off. She went back to the original subject.

  “Is it loaded?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t you carry it with you on the motorbike?”

  “No sling for it. It’s going to have to go in the van.”

  She paused a moment. “Put it by the passenger’s seat. And make sure the safety’s on.”

  Then she turned away, going back into the house with Zachary. She knew the fireball in the sky heralded a momentous change in the world and was obviously willing to set aside old prejudices, but the coldness of her tone made it abundantly clear that she didn’t like the new rules at all.

  I took Megan aside for a crash course in basic firearm safety, showing her how to release the safety, sight, fire, and reload the weapon.

  “Megan, everything’s changed now. You have to understand that. If it comes down to your having to shoot someone with this, you won’t have time to think about it. You’ll have to remember everything I’ve taught you in class: put your feelings aside until later, concentrate on what has to be done, and do it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir.” She hesitated a moment. “But what if I’m too scared, Dad?”

  It was completely unfair to force a sixteen-year-old girl into adulthood so abruptly, but at this point, it couldn’t be helped. “Okay, Megan, what if someone was holding a gun to your brother’s head? Could you shoot them to save his life?”

  When she nodded, I continued, “What about your mother? Or me? Could you shoot someone who was trying to kill us?”

  Another nod. “Listen, kiddo, you and I are the only ones in this family who have any kind of fighting skills. That means it’s up to us to protect your mother and Zachary if anything happens. It’s just like you learned in class. There’s nothing wrong with being afraid. And there’s nothing wrong with not wanting to hurt anyone. I’m glad you don’t want to hurt anyone. But if there’s a situation where you have to, even if you have to kill someone to save Zach, or your mom, or me, then you have to put your hesitation aside. If you don’t, then one of us could get hurt, or even killed. Understand?”

  Eyes downcast, she meekly responded, “Yes, sir.”

  I pulled her to me and hugged her tightly. “I love you, kiddo, and I wish I could put into words how very proud of you I am. You’re smart, pretty.” I pushed her back to arm’s length, put a finger under her chin, and brought her eyes back up to meet mine. “And you could probably beat the crap out of anyone that looked at you crosswise. You’re the best student that I’ve ever had.”

  “Like you gave me a choice?” She smiled and blinked away the moisture that threatened her mascara. “I’ll put the gun in the van.” With that, she walked away.

  At this point, Debra, an aluminum baseball bat in hand, reentered the garage. I cocked an eyebrow inquisitively.

  “Maybe we’ll get time for some softball.” Her eyes dared me to make further comment.

  “Maybe we will,” I agreed straight-faced. I decided it was safer not to mention the fact that she’d left the ball and gloves in the house. So much for pacifism.

  She went past me to the front of the van. Over her shoulder, she suggested, “Why don’t you go change? I laid some things out on the bed for you.”

  I shook my head in astonishment when I reached the bedroom. When she said she had laid out some things, I’d expected a change of clothes. Next to the clean clothes, boots, and denim jacket, my delicate, anti-firearm, pacifistic wife had neatly laid out some of my nastiest little martial arts “toys.”

  Debra was subtly telling me that she recognized and accepted the fact that the world might suddenly become a nastier place in which to live. But by not mentioning her concession in front of the kids, she was also telling me that she would appreciate it if I would keep my little arsenal hidden from them.

  I agreed, no use making them any more nervous than I already had. I quickly set to the task of selecting suitable armaments.

  I strapped a sheath containing an eight-inch, flat, black throwing knife to the top of my left forearm. I was pretty good with it, and could usually sink four out of five throws. Next, I hung a manriki gusari around my neck. A three-foot-long fighting chain, its weighted ends tapped against my ribs. I rejected the crossbow, since I could hardly expect to load and shoot while riding the motorcycle. I did grab a pair of knives in clip-on sheaths, one for each boot, and secured that custom Bowie to my belt, within easy reach.

  Last, I put on my jean jacket and looked in the mirror. I felt like a reject from a low-budget ninja movie, but all of my toys were hidden, with the exception of the lower half of the Bowie hanging from my belt.

  For the piece de resistance, I had a sheathed machete hung on a web belt slung diagonally across my back with the handle within easy reach over my left shoulder.

  Feeling a bit like a walking armory, I stuffed the remaining weapons into a sport bag and carried it out to the garage. Debra met me at the door.

  “Do I look as conspicuous as I feel?” I shifted the sport bag to my other hand.

  “That depends on how you feel.”

  “A little bit like Robocop’s long-lost father.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll never understand how you can crack jokes when things get so bad.” She reached up and stroked my cheek before I could answer. “I know it’s just your way, and I’ve been around long enough to realize that it’s more of a nervous response than anything else.” She gripped my chin and pulled my face down to her eye level. “But it drives me nuts sometimes!”

  She stepped back and gave me a once-over. “Well, you look all right. Nothing too obvious, anyway. Are you ready?”

  “Not quite. Is there room left in the van for my staves and sticks?”

  “I already packed them,” she replied quickly.

  “What about my backpack?”

  “Packed.”

  “Well can I at least grab a bite to eat?”

  She smiled smugly. “Sandwiches in the front seat.”

  I chuckled at the sheer normality of the exchange. “All right, I give up!” I raised my hands
in mock surrender. “I freely admit it. Once again, you’ve thought of everything!”

  “Good thing, buster. Otherwise, you don’t get a sandwich.”

  Chapter 3

  June 13 / 3:15 p.m.

  L’horrible guerre qu’en l’Occident s’appreste,

  L’an ensuiuant viendra la pestilence

  Si fort l’horrible que ieune, vieux, ne beste,

  Sang, feu. Mercure, Mars, Iupiter en France.

  The horrible war which is being prepared in the West,

  The following year will come the pestilence

  So very horrible that young, old, nor beast,

  Blood, fire Mercury, Mars, Jupiter in France.

  Nostradamus — Century 9, Quatrain 55

  Five minutes later, we were ready to pull out of the garage so we could strap the bicycles on the back and top racks of the van. That meant announcing to our neighbors that we had viable transportation. It also meant announcing that we were bailing and leaving them to their own devices. My conscience twinged a bit, but I wasn’t about to risk my family’s safety for the sake of maintaining good relations with the neighbors. For all we knew, missiles could be streaking toward Houston at this very minute, so I didn’t want to spend any more time here than was absolutely necessary.

  Debra and the kids got into the van, Zachary sitting on the floor in front of Megan on the passenger’s side.

  I walked around to the driver’s side. “Don’t open the garage door until you start the van. I’ll put the bikes on as soon as you’re in the driveway, so you won’t have to get out at all. Just don’t leave until you see that I have the motorcycle running, okay?”

  “Afraid we’re going to leave you?” she joked.

  I shrugged. “Rejas would be a pretty long walk.”

  She leaned through the window and gave me a quick kiss. “Okay, let’s see if this thing’s going to start.” She pumped the gas, turned the key and, with a whoop from all of us, the van purred to life. Grinning, she thumbed the transmitter for the automatic garage door opener.