The Wine Dark Earth

by | Wayne Kyle Spitzer-5

And yet it is so much more than that; rather, it is a series of lucky breaks: from the box-truck backed up to the loading dock just as snug as could be; to the solar panels working precisely as predicted (as evidenced by the dim light over the man door); to my easy passing of the retina scan; it is, in the end, a kind of revelation, a kind of magic. As though God Himself has looked down through the lights and the wine-dark clouds; and, seeing our hope and fear and desperation—our truth—extended to us the Horn of Amalthea.

That’s when I feel it; that’s when the ceiling shakes and I turn to see a fireball crashing deep inside the warehouse (not the foyer, which is where Beth and I are waiting as the men return from their sweep). That’s when everyone freezes and Will snatches up his radio and seems to belt, “Go ahead.”

I look at Beth but she quickly shakes her head: Not now, she indicates, watching Will, listening intently—as her face lights up and the floor jolts yet again.

Then Will is lowering the radio, addressing the group, as Beth begins to sign, frantically, So there’s good news and bad news. The bad news is: those aren’t just giant hailstones—which I reckon you’ve already noticed. They’re meteors. Golf ball-sized bolides. Worse; there’s more of them—and I mean a lot more; coming right now—which means the submarine is gonna have to dive, and quick. Which means it’s just possible we are in a world of s**t.

He focuses exclusively on Beth and me—I’m not sure why. The good news is, that truck parked at the loading dock is already stocked; I mean, it’s packed to the gills—they must have been ready to ship out when the Flashback hit, and the keys are in it. So, if you’ll be so kind as to just climb on board, we’ve got a sub to catch.

And then he winks at us; to inject a little humor, to put us at ease, because that’s the kind of guy he is; the kind of guy who would risk (and finally capsize) his own boat—and Beth’s, too—to pull you from yours—which is burning. Who would do it not knowing there’s a submarine coming which will rescue you all; which will lift you from the cold, dark water into its dry, cool hold—its beating, nuclear heart; its close-knit family. Who would just simply do it—even were there a storm of meteors, as there is now: punching holes in the ceiling, letting in the rain.

Benny, I want you and Slater in the rear—okay? To sort of—

Benny interjects and I read his lips: “... in the rear with the gear. Ain’t no skin off our teeth, Boss.”

“With the door open,” adds Will, his scarred lip curling up a little—like a swashbuckler; or a pirate. “To act as tail gunners—in case any of those things, whatever they are, decide to pursue. You can do it.”

“But the cases of food—”

“The food will be fine; you saw the shelves. It’ll be just like a B-17; with communication through the central passage. Beth and Mouse will ride with me—up in the cab, where there isn’t enough room for you, anyway. Anything moves—I want you to light it up. Okay?”

But then my concentration flags and I lose the rest—not that it matters: the look on everyone’s faces tells me everything I need to know. Then everyone just nods and shoulders their long guns—grimly, resolutely. Stilled for whatever may come; undeterred.

And we move out.

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