come home. Worse, events might prevent them from returning home at all.
More monk than adventurer, Diogenes to his Columbus, Molly regretted the need to leave. Her preferred strategy was to bar the doors, board the windows, press sleep from lidless eyes, and wait for trouble to knock. And hope that it never would.
She knew, however, that Neil's argument for action was the wiser course. Whatever might be coming in the rain or on the wake of it, they would be more vulnerable alone than they would be in the company of their neighbors.
Before she washed her hands, she lowered her face to the sink and warily breathed the steam rising from the gushing water. She could not detect any trace of the scent of the rain.
The tainted storm had not yet found its way into the public water system. Or if it had found its way, it traveled now in this bland disguise, un-detectable.
Before picking up the cake of soap, she transferred the pistol from the counter to the toilet tank-beyond the grasp of anything that might reach through the mirror.
With such bizarre precautions already second nature only hours into this new reality, Molly wondered if she would know when she had gone mad. Perhaps she had already left sanity behind. Perhaps she had journeyed so far from rationality that Neil could never pack enough hampers of provisions to feed her during a return trip.
She washed her hands.
She remained the only presence in the mirror, not stained and ruined and grown over with strange vines, nor cleaved through the face from brow to chin, but still so young, and bright-eyed with a desperate hope.
Coolers filled with food, a case of bottled water, and basic first-aid supplies had been loaded aboard the SUV in the garage. They were prepared for travel where the ways were deep and the weather sharp.
Molly had also packed her mother's books, and the four that she herself had written, plus her current uncompleted manuscript. Worlds might perish but, in her view, never the written word.
Gathering courage to depart, she and Neil stood side by side in the family room, watching TV.
Channel by channel, chaos had expanded its domain. More than half of the microwave highways were clogged with snow, scintillation, flare, woomp, and third-generation ghosts of people and objects unidentifiable.
Another third carried the pulsing, serpentine, kaleidoscopic patterns of intense color. These were accompanied by the humming, hissing, blurping, wow-wows, squeals, whistles, and birdies that also rendered the telephone useless.
They could find no news, no meaningful information.
A handful of channels continued to broadcast clear signals: sharp pictures, surprisingly pristine sound. Every one of these was devoted to entertainment programming.
For a minute, they watched an old episode of Seinfeld. An audience, real or virtual, laughed and laughed.
Neil changed channels, found a game show. For a quarter of a million dollars and a chance to go on for half a million, name the author of Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats.
"T. S. Eliot," Molly said.
She was right, but she suspected that one week from now a quarter of a million dollars might have no more value than last week's newspaper.
On another channel, in the black-and-white Casablanca night, Bogart said good-bye to Ingrid Bergman as total war descended on the world.
Neil knew the dialogue so well that he could recite it word for word. His lips moved to match those of the actors, though he made no sound.
He switched channels: Here, Cary Grant, with exquisite comic timing, grew increasingly flustered in the face of Katharine Hepburn's nonstop screwball patter.
And here, Jimmy Stewart wisecracked with an invisible, six-foot-tall rabbit.
At first Molly didn't understand why Neil watched these old films with
More monk than adventurer, Diogenes to his Columbus, Molly regretted the need to leave. Her preferred strategy was to bar the doors, board the windows, press sleep from lidless eyes, and wait for trouble to knock. And hope that it never would.
She knew, however, that Neil's argument for action was the wiser course. Whatever might be coming in the rain or on the wake of it, they would be more vulnerable alone than they would be in the company of their neighbors.
Before she washed her hands, she lowered her face to the sink and warily breathed the steam rising from the gushing water. She could not detect any trace of the scent of the rain.
The tainted storm had not yet found its way into the public water system. Or if it had found its way, it traveled now in this bland disguise, un-detectable.
Before picking up the cake of soap, she transferred the pistol from the counter to the toilet tank-beyond the grasp of anything that might reach through the mirror.
With such bizarre precautions already second nature only hours into this new reality, Molly wondered if she would know when she had gone mad. Perhaps she had already left sanity behind. Perhaps she had journeyed so far from rationality that Neil could never pack enough hampers of provisions to feed her during a return trip.
She washed her hands.
She remained the only presence in the mirror, not stained and ruined and grown over with strange vines, nor cleaved through the face from brow to chin, but still so young, and bright-eyed with a desperate hope.
Coolers filled with food, a case of bottled water, and basic first-aid supplies had been loaded aboard the SUV in the garage. They were prepared for travel where the ways were deep and the weather sharp.
Molly had also packed her mother's books, and the four that she herself had written, plus her current uncompleted manuscript. Worlds might perish but, in her view, never the written word.
Gathering courage to depart, she and Neil stood side by side in the family room, watching TV.
Channel by channel, chaos had expanded its domain. More than half of the microwave highways were clogged with snow, scintillation, flare, woomp, and third-generation ghosts of people and objects unidentifiable.
Another third carried the pulsing, serpentine, kaleidoscopic patterns of intense color. These were accompanied by the humming, hissing, blurping, wow-wows, squeals, whistles, and birdies that also rendered the telephone useless.
They could find no news, no meaningful information.
A handful of channels continued to broadcast clear signals: sharp pictures, surprisingly pristine sound. Every one of these was devoted to entertainment programming.
For a minute, they watched an old episode of Seinfeld. An audience, real or virtual, laughed and laughed.
Neil changed channels, found a game show. For a quarter of a million dollars and a chance to go on for half a million, name the author of Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats.
"T. S. Eliot," Molly said.
She was right, but she suspected that one week from now a quarter of a million dollars might have no more value than last week's newspaper.
On another channel, in the black-and-white Casablanca night, Bogart said good-bye to Ingrid Bergman as total war descended on the world.
Neil knew the dialogue so well that he could recite it word for word. His lips moved to match those of the actors, though he made no sound.
He switched channels: Here, Cary Grant, with exquisite comic timing, grew increasingly flustered in the face of Katharine Hepburn's nonstop screwball patter.
And here, Jimmy Stewart wisecracked with an invisible, six-foot-tall rabbit.
At first Molly didn't understand why Neil watched these old films with
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