wide dry desert rushed by. Here, inside the automobile, it seemed so peaceful and calm. But the voice on the radio speaker was virtually screaming with a desperation he'd never felt before in his life.
"It's war!" the announcer shouted hysterically. "Everybody, it's war!"
The announcer on the long-distance radio station had interrupted the music to shout that there were flocks of armed Soviet bombers soaring over the north pole and that submarine-launched missiles were already falling on the cities of both coasts.
Now the radio stations—all of them—had gone off the air without any prior warning. The last voice Nick had heard had urged them all to get out of town, to get as far away from Tucson as they could. The announcer's voice had choked with sobs, and then the station's place on the dial was taken over by sudden silence.
And he couldn't drive fast enough.
In the back seat of the car were two children. His children.
But he didn't have any children.
He quickly looked back: yes, they were his. There was his daughter, only a month old, napping soundly, lost to the world. But the other child, an eighteen-month-old boy, was bouncing around in the backseat, having just awoken nervous and fidgety. The boy kept craning his head up for a look out of the side window of the car.
"Stay down," Nicholas commanded him. "Oh, sweet Jesus," he whispered to himself.
He felt dazed, bludgeoned by the entire sensory world.
Then he discovered that there was a woman beside him.
His wife. Yes, he thought. My wife.
She slowly turned to him in the agonized light of the sunset, a long, harried look on her face—a face suddenly become familiar, shifting and changing in the coruscating aura of the sunset.
"Oh, Nickie!" she exclaimed. "What are we going to do about Mother? What are we going to do?"
He blinked, staring at her. The name, the face, came to him. Rhoanna.
Confused, frightened, and desperate, he said, "I don't know." His throat was dry in the Sonoran heat. "Let me think. Just let me think!"
On the highway not a single car obeyed the speed limit. In his rearview mirror, Nicholas could discern the teeth of faraway Picacho Peak to the south. Barreling up the road from behind came a wildman in a huge car, possibly an armored Cadillac.
The Highway Patrol was nowhere to be seen.
"Oh, God. Hold on!" Nicholas yelled.
He jerked his car off to the far right-hand side of the highway in order to avoid a fiery collision. His wife had turned around to see the frantic car approaching. Rhoanna!
"Grab the babies!" Nick shouted at her.
In blue jeans and workshirt, her hair tied up in a turquoise scarf, Rhoanna leaned across the seat of the car as the Cadillac rocketed up beside them. Nicholas pulled a sharp maneuver that tossed his wife bodily back into the front seat, still holding the little girl in her arms. The baby screamed, having been rudely awoken from her dreams. The little boy had disappeared behind the seat, probably as safe there as anywhere else in the vehicle.
The Cadillac sideswiped Nick's car with a dinosaur scream—but otherwise there was no harm done.
The Cadillac wobbled back into the center of the two-lane highway, carried on down the road by its frantic momentum, in search of better prey, now that the world was coming to an end and law didn't matter. The man was doing better than one hundred ten miles an hour, by Nicholas's reckoning.
Nick lifted his foot from the gas pedal and for a brief second closed his eyes. He'd never been so frightened in his life. Everything seemed to rush about his ears.
The baby began screaming loudly in her mother's arms.
The radio—which up until now had been a squall of static—suddenly resumed broadcasting. The announcer's voice was unsteady; as he spoke, the words themselves seemed to shake.
He cleared his throat, then said, "The President has called for a state of national emergency. Several American cities have been struck with nuclear weapons. Governor Lowen has called
"It's war!" the announcer shouted hysterically. "Everybody, it's war!"
The announcer on the long-distance radio station had interrupted the music to shout that there were flocks of armed Soviet bombers soaring over the north pole and that submarine-launched missiles were already falling on the cities of both coasts.
Now the radio stations—all of them—had gone off the air without any prior warning. The last voice Nick had heard had urged them all to get out of town, to get as far away from Tucson as they could. The announcer's voice had choked with sobs, and then the station's place on the dial was taken over by sudden silence.
And he couldn't drive fast enough.
In the back seat of the car were two children. His children.
But he didn't have any children.
He quickly looked back: yes, they were his. There was his daughter, only a month old, napping soundly, lost to the world. But the other child, an eighteen-month-old boy, was bouncing around in the backseat, having just awoken nervous and fidgety. The boy kept craning his head up for a look out of the side window of the car.
"Stay down," Nicholas commanded him. "Oh, sweet Jesus," he whispered to himself.
He felt dazed, bludgeoned by the entire sensory world.
Then he discovered that there was a woman beside him.
His wife. Yes, he thought. My wife.
She slowly turned to him in the agonized light of the sunset, a long, harried look on her face—a face suddenly become familiar, shifting and changing in the coruscating aura of the sunset.
"Oh, Nickie!" she exclaimed. "What are we going to do about Mother? What are we going to do?"
He blinked, staring at her. The name, the face, came to him. Rhoanna.
Confused, frightened, and desperate, he said, "I don't know." His throat was dry in the Sonoran heat. "Let me think. Just let me think!"
On the highway not a single car obeyed the speed limit. In his rearview mirror, Nicholas could discern the teeth of faraway Picacho Peak to the south. Barreling up the road from behind came a wildman in a huge car, possibly an armored Cadillac.
The Highway Patrol was nowhere to be seen.
"Oh, God. Hold on!" Nicholas yelled.
He jerked his car off to the far right-hand side of the highway in order to avoid a fiery collision. His wife had turned around to see the frantic car approaching. Rhoanna!
"Grab the babies!" Nick shouted at her.
In blue jeans and workshirt, her hair tied up in a turquoise scarf, Rhoanna leaned across the seat of the car as the Cadillac rocketed up beside them. Nicholas pulled a sharp maneuver that tossed his wife bodily back into the front seat, still holding the little girl in her arms. The baby screamed, having been rudely awoken from her dreams. The little boy had disappeared behind the seat, probably as safe there as anywhere else in the vehicle.
The Cadillac sideswiped Nick's car with a dinosaur scream—but otherwise there was no harm done.
The Cadillac wobbled back into the center of the two-lane highway, carried on down the road by its frantic momentum, in search of better prey, now that the world was coming to an end and law didn't matter. The man was doing better than one hundred ten miles an hour, by Nicholas's reckoning.
Nick lifted his foot from the gas pedal and for a brief second closed his eyes. He'd never been so frightened in his life. Everything seemed to rush about his ears.
The baby began screaming loudly in her mother's arms.
The radio—which up until now had been a squall of static—suddenly resumed broadcasting. The announcer's voice was unsteady; as he spoke, the words themselves seemed to shake.
He cleared his throat, then said, "The President has called for a state of national emergency. Several American cities have been struck with nuclear weapons. Governor Lowen has called
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