Pestilence

62

Rick stood at his open front door. He didn’t move until he heard the door creak in the wind that was blowing through the trees and shrubbery. Walking in, his mouth was dry, and his heart was pounding. He was physically weak and thought, So this is what being really terrified feels like?

His gun was upstairs. He walked through the kitchen and into the living room. As he was heading up the stairs, a breeze wafted in, and he saw that the balcony doors were open.

Taking one step at a time, careful not to make them creak, he got to the second floor and glanced down both sides of the hallway before turning into the master bedroom. A framed photo of his wife was on the nightstand. He stared at it a moment and then went to the closet. Up on the top shelf was his 12 gauge. He took down that and a box of ammo. Then he loaded the weapon and cocked it before turning around.

Rick walked back down to the living room. He crossed the carpet, stopping for a moment to listen, and then was about to head out to his kids when he saw something off the balcony-a plume of smoke, several, in fact.

He walked out and slid open the screen. Standing on the balcony, he saw Los Angeles before him, but it didn’t resemble any city he’d seen. Fires raged across the city. Some were small patches that produced light, gray smoke, and others were sizeable infernos the length of football fields that discharged a black fog. The streets were clogged with motionless cars, and most shocking of all, he didn’t see a single live person. Bodies were everywhere, dotting the landscape like ants over rotting food. Many wore military uniforms.

He heard something in the sky and looked up to see a chopper heading toward downtown. The machine was veering off course, weaving in the air as though it had a drunk driver, far too close to the ground. It squealed as it neared the city and banked downward into a building. A boom and an explosion accompanied it as it slammed into a tower and shattered.

Though Rick was miles away, he flinched. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a smoldering heap of stone and steel where the chopper and fragments of the building had hit the sidewalk.

Rick turned and ran to the RV, grabbing some food and storage water on his way. He ran back to the house twice more, with his kids asking him what was going on, and loaded up as many supplies as he could.

“Dad, what’s going on?” his son asked.

He jumped into the driver’s seat. “We’re getting the hell out of California.”