The Mayan Apocalypse by Mark Hitchcock Page B

reports, but estimates of dead run in the thousands. Popocatépetl has been rumbling for years. Scientists had earlier dismissed the idea of such a violent explosion. Villages in the San Pedro Mountains are the most severely hit.”
    â€œOh my…” Lisa had joined the ranks of frozen viewers.
    The news anchor continued: “A team of scientists from MIT had been studying the volcano for the last few months. Nothinghas been heard from them, and the worst is feared. Video from cell phones are being sent worldwide. We have one here.” He touched his ear and tilted his head. “I’m being told to warn you that this is rather graphic.”
    The newsman disappeared, replaced by a grainy, bouncy image. At first, Lisa could only see a dirt path and the feet of frightened people. Suddenly, the individual with the camera fell. The lens of the device pointed up, revealing a funeral shroud of black smoke hovering overhead. A face appeared. Lisa assumed it was the phone’s owner. Dirt covered his skin, streaked clean by flowing tears.
    He picked up the phone and turned it back to the wrathful mountain, just in time to see a blazing red explosion. Moments later, fiery pieces of molten rock began falling like blazing basketballs.
    The device recorded the screams of men, women, children, and even animals.
    The image changed from a boiling mountain to fleeing villagers to the face of the man who the owned phone. He spoke. Lisa knew enough Spanish to translate the man’s words: “I love you forever… forever…”
    The video stopped.
    â€œOh, my soul,” Lisa said. “Oh, my dear Jesus.”
    â€œQuetzal was right.” Morgan spoke softly and respectfully. “It’s begun.”

DECEMBER 30, 2010
    T he funeral and reception lasted less than three hours, which seemed slightly less than a week to Morgan. After the funeral, scores of people came by and patted or shook him on the shoulder, each expressing the deep sorrow they felt for him at his loss.
    He nodded.
    He said thank you.
    And when they commented about how wonderful his wife was, how talented his son had been, he agreed and tried not to let on that each word sliced off a piece of his heart.
    They held the reception in a large fellowship hall at Johansson’s church. Volunteers had brought every imaginable form of casserole, fried chicken, potato salad, and Jell-O concoction. They had laid the food on a series of long tables that reminded Morgan of a buffet line.
    When he first arrived, a dour seriousness hung in the air. People spoke in low tones and ladies with decorative aprons ricocheted from the kitchen to the hall and back to the kitchen. None looked up from their work. One gray-haired woman moved a serving tray of spaghetti and meatballs to the end of one of the tables and then disappeared from view. A moment later, another woman with grayer hair moved it back. Morgan wondered if spaghetti protocol had been broken.
    A few days ago, the thought would have been funny.
    In the center of the room sat the largest table in the room. In the center of the table sat a placard with his name on it. A flash of memory burned his brain. The last time he saw his name on a table placard was at the fund-raiser he attended with his wife shortly before… well, before. The placard had more than his name on it: A NDREW M ORGAN AND F AMILY .
    Was this the way it was going to be? Reminders in every room, at every corner, in every sentence? Whoever made the little sign couldn’t have known it would evoke such a scorching memory. Not even he could have predicted it.
    Morgan took his place at the table and someone offered to fix a plate for him. He looked in the sad eyes of a woman who teetered on the threshold between middle age and matronhood.
    â€œI’m not hungry, but thank you.”
    â€œI’ll just bring a little bit of everything.”
    Morgan doubted she was strong enough or had a plate large enough to bring