at a crossroads. “I know Ron.”
“Yeah. He’s sayin’ there’s a formation he can see in the flashes, moving with the clouds. And nobody’s answering the phone over in Holcomb.”
“But they’re working? The phones are working?”
“They’re ringing. No cops, no sheriff, no paramedics picking up, nothin’.”
“Dear God.”
“You better get down outta there, now, Martin.”
Immediately, he clambered down the four flights to the choir loft, glanced out across the dark church, and then went down the stairs to the entrance. Bobby had arrived and was going into the electrical closet as Martin reached the foot of the stairs. Bobby hit the power switches, lighting up the nave, then all the external lights.
Martin flipped open his cell phone and called the minister. “Reg, we could be getting hit tonight, looks like.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It looked like Holcomb was getting it a few minutes ago and now Bobby can’t raise them on the phone. Disks passed over Parker coming this way. We’re the only town in this direction for eighty miles, Reg.”
“I’m on my way.”
Martin stepped outside. “I called Dennis Farm,” Bobby said. “We-” His phone buzzed. He flipped it open, listened a moment, then closed it. “That was Larry Dennis screaming for help, they got Sally, the light’s coming down like rain-then the line-” He held out the silent cell phone.
In both of their minds was the same thought: it couldn’t be happening here, it was something you heard about, a big city thing, a European thing, a Chinese disaster.
“Wake ‘em up,” Bobby said, “we’re under attack.”
Martin went back into the church and started the bell. There was a whirring sound as it began ringing, its stately tones trembling off into the night. His finger hesitated over the siren. It hadn’t been sounded since September, when it had been turned on for the tornado that had taken out the Conagra silo and the Kan-San Trailer Park.
He flipped the switch, and the siren began as a low growl, quickly increased its volume, then filled the air with its wailing. Across the street, Sam Gossett came to the door in his pajama bottoms and yelled, “Is it for real?”
“Holcomb and Dennis Farm just got it,” Bobby said. “It’s for real, all right.”
The Wilsons and a family Martin didn’t know except to nod to arrived in SUVs and went hurrying into the church. They must have been sleeping in their clothes. As he passed, Timmy Wilson said, “They’re coming up Six Mile, slow and low.”
His words made Martin feel literally sick. He telephoned Lindy. “Hi, hon, what’s your situation?”
“We’re leaving the house.”
“You need to hurry, Lindy, they’re over Six Mile Road.”
“Oh, God, Martin.”
According to Homeland Security, people alone did not survive, none of them, not ever. Groups supposedly had a better chance. They still got flyers dropped from time to time. He speculated that Bo Waldo might have something to do with that. There was a man who was not going to be beaten, unlike those two generals, who’d been edgy, bitchy thoroughbreds.
“Lindy, cut across the Walker place to the highway.”
“I’ll wreck their garden.”
“Do it now!”
She closed the phone-unless something else just happened. A wave of nausea almost made Martin gag.
“You okay?” Bobby asked.
“Lindy’s out there with the kids. Where’s Rose?”
“Same thing, coming in fast as she can.”
“But not down Six Mile Road.”
“Goddamn, buddy, that’s right.”
Bobby, who had been his friend since their boyhood in this community, met his eyes. Bobby had stayed, Martin had gone on to university. But he’d returned in the end, discovering after Berkeley and Stanford that one did not leave Kansas so easily.
“I never thought this would come,” Bobby said as the two of them watched the sky and the people now hurrying into the church.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Bobby. Kansas is gone with the
“Yeah. He’s sayin’ there’s a formation he can see in the flashes, moving with the clouds. And nobody’s answering the phone over in Holcomb.”
“But they’re working? The phones are working?”
“They’re ringing. No cops, no sheriff, no paramedics picking up, nothin’.”
“Dear God.”
“You better get down outta there, now, Martin.”
Immediately, he clambered down the four flights to the choir loft, glanced out across the dark church, and then went down the stairs to the entrance. Bobby had arrived and was going into the electrical closet as Martin reached the foot of the stairs. Bobby hit the power switches, lighting up the nave, then all the external lights.
Martin flipped open his cell phone and called the minister. “Reg, we could be getting hit tonight, looks like.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It looked like Holcomb was getting it a few minutes ago and now Bobby can’t raise them on the phone. Disks passed over Parker coming this way. We’re the only town in this direction for eighty miles, Reg.”
“I’m on my way.”
Martin stepped outside. “I called Dennis Farm,” Bobby said. “We-” His phone buzzed. He flipped it open, listened a moment, then closed it. “That was Larry Dennis screaming for help, they got Sally, the light’s coming down like rain-then the line-” He held out the silent cell phone.
In both of their minds was the same thought: it couldn’t be happening here, it was something you heard about, a big city thing, a European thing, a Chinese disaster.
“Wake ‘em up,” Bobby said, “we’re under attack.”
Martin went back into the church and started the bell. There was a whirring sound as it began ringing, its stately tones trembling off into the night. His finger hesitated over the siren. It hadn’t been sounded since September, when it had been turned on for the tornado that had taken out the Conagra silo and the Kan-San Trailer Park.
He flipped the switch, and the siren began as a low growl, quickly increased its volume, then filled the air with its wailing. Across the street, Sam Gossett came to the door in his pajama bottoms and yelled, “Is it for real?”
“Holcomb and Dennis Farm just got it,” Bobby said. “It’s for real, all right.”
The Wilsons and a family Martin didn’t know except to nod to arrived in SUVs and went hurrying into the church. They must have been sleeping in their clothes. As he passed, Timmy Wilson said, “They’re coming up Six Mile, slow and low.”
His words made Martin feel literally sick. He telephoned Lindy. “Hi, hon, what’s your situation?”
“We’re leaving the house.”
“You need to hurry, Lindy, they’re over Six Mile Road.”
“Oh, God, Martin.”
According to Homeland Security, people alone did not survive, none of them, not ever. Groups supposedly had a better chance. They still got flyers dropped from time to time. He speculated that Bo Waldo might have something to do with that. There was a man who was not going to be beaten, unlike those two generals, who’d been edgy, bitchy thoroughbreds.
“Lindy, cut across the Walker place to the highway.”
“I’ll wreck their garden.”
“Do it now!”
She closed the phone-unless something else just happened. A wave of nausea almost made Martin gag.
“You okay?” Bobby asked.
“Lindy’s out there with the kids. Where’s Rose?”
“Same thing, coming in fast as she can.”
“But not down Six Mile Road.”
“Goddamn, buddy, that’s right.”
Bobby, who had been his friend since their boyhood in this community, met his eyes. Bobby had stayed, Martin had gone on to university. But he’d returned in the end, discovering after Berkeley and Stanford that one did not leave Kansas so easily.
“I never thought this would come,” Bobby said as the two of them watched the sky and the people now hurrying into the church.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Bobby. Kansas is gone with the
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