Hell and Gone

33

You always makin’ big plans for tomorrow, you know why? Because you always fuckin’ up today.

—Roberto Benigni, Down by Law

PEOPLE ALL OVER Southern California heard the explosion—a kind of end-of-the-world roar that brought certain Santa Barbara residents to their windows, fearing the worst. When you looked up into the pale blue sky you saw the missile and the trail of fire almost as long as the missile itself and your heart seized—but for just a moment. Because this missile—a rocket, actually, 235 feet tall—was zooming away from Southern California at 17,500 miles per hour, not screaming toward it.

Older residents, though, were used to such launches. Vandenberg Air Force Base was nearby, and ever since the 1960s the government had been launching all kinds of space shit up from Slick Six—the nickname for Space Launch Complex-6.

The newcomers, on the other hand, were mesmerized by the sight, at least once the initial fear drained away. They summoned their kids and went outside to their perfectly maintained lawns and pointed up at the sky, idly wondering if they should invest in a telescope. Might be cool to show the kids these kinds of things. Or maybe start looking up at the stars on a regular basis.

Within the hour, however, the explosion and the rocket and the fire trail and the telescope and everything else were forgotten, and people got back to their lives. Miracles are cool and all. But there are things to do.

Hardie woke up cold.

Freezing cold.

He opened his eyes.

No memory problems this time. There had been no need for a shot. The training had been important; he needed to remember every piece of it. There was a checklist of duties to perform.

But this morning he indulged himself and looked in on his family first.

Kendra was making chicken soup. Both she and Charlie, Jr., were fighting colds. Kendra had already taken apart the chicken and was now chopping thick carrot slices. Made him nervous to watch her fingers move so quickly, chop chop chop chop chop chop chop, even though her fingers were curled under, just as they were supposed to be. Still, fingers could slip. And if something should happen…

Charlie, Jr., was in the living room, holding up an imaginary gun and blasting away digital opponents on a flat screen. Nothing real, except the anger on his face. You could tell when he got off a particularly gory shot, because his eyes lit up in a certain way. Partly appalled, partly amused.

Hardie’s family.

They were right there in front of him.

Actually, they weren’t. Their digital images were right there in front of Hardie, on the screen. His actual wife and son—their flesh-and-blood bodies—were far, far below.

He should be passing over them soon, actually.