The Second Intelligent Species: The Cyclical Earth by Dale Langlois

would only be making the noise of one person walking. We both knew it, but neither one of us changed a step, keeping our thoughts to ourselves. Her thoughts were surely of her children, and grandchildren. They weren’t actually my grandbabies, but they thought they were. They called me “Papa.”
    I figured with no light she couldn’t see my face, so I asked, “I noticed you praying earlier. What did you two talk about?”
    “I kept trying to make him drink, but he wouldn’t until he finished his story. Something about Sodom and Gomorrah, something about God’s covenant. It’s all mumbo jumbo to me.”
    “Wait. I saw you praying, and I heard you recite the Lord’s Prayer without missing a beat.”
    “First, I wasn’t praying. He asked me to hold my hands that way, so he could give me the cross. Second, I said a prayer familiar to all Christians to comfort my patient. I can recite the Shema in Hebrew too if you like. Making the patient comfortable at the time of death just seems the right thing to do. It’s just part of a good bedside manner.”
    “So he didn’t save you, did he?”
    “I didn’t need saving. You saved me.”
    The first day on the interstate was long and we stopped when we found a cement building at a sub station of a power terminal. The hatchet made little work of the locked door.
    We went without a fire or light that night. It was good to feel a breeze. It was still hot, like that trip we spent in Vegas in July, around one hundred to one hundred and fifteen degrees. Even though it was difficult to see, we needed a respite from the heat. Plus, I didn’t think there was much left in the dark to be afraid of.
    We lay down on the cement floor with no pillows. Neither one of us complained.

Chapter 10
    The Tower

    We left the comfort of our dark cement vault once we woke from a much-needed rest. The difference between day and night remained indistinguishable.
    “Are you ready for breakfast?” I held up two cans of food. “Remember a day without orange juice is…”
    “Just give me the cans.” The labels were missing. What Beth thought was beets, was butter beans. The can she guessed contained green beans, held spoiled cranberry sauce, at least we suspected it to be spoiled. We were not taking any chances. There was no doctor to take care of us, no 911 to call. We couldn’t afford to get any sicker than we were. I still had diarrhea, but at least Beth was feeling better.
    Eating can upon can of cold vegetables only to fill the hole took all the pleasure out of eating. Straight butter beans are not a good way to start the day, but we packed as much into our bellies as we could before the long walk. Phony Bologna and eggs would have been appreciated for once.
    Again we were bound for Syracuse. We didn’t get a hundred yards when Beth stopped walking. “I’m getting so sick of hearing these wheels. Let’s ditch these wagons. We’ll take soda and just a few cans of food, we’ll carry it in the pack, and we can move faster. There’s bound to be places where we can get food when we get there. They’ll probably have supplies and shelters set up for the survivors. Hopefully we can get some news on what happened and find out what friggin’ time it is.”
    We brought the wagons back to the building and moved much faster without them.
    After what seemed like hours, Beth broke the silence. “We must be getting close to people soon. It’s been three lanes for some time now. We should have seen some sign of life, don’t you think? Fires, sounds or something. The whole city can’t be dead, can it?”
    She was looking in the wrong places again. She expected them to be lined up along the exit ramps. No, we would find people near the remains of super-markets, or where we could find fresh water.
    It was storming in the south, and occasionally the silhouette of a water tower could be seen in the distance when lightning flashed. The wind picked up, and ashes started to swirl about. The panorama