Odd Ball

Rats

Hours before the sirens rang and the world ended, Byron had been sipping on cool sweet tea. It had been hot. The summer heat still clung to the air though the sun had gone down hours ago. Byron's ice clinked around in his glass as he swirled it. The night was so dark. Blackness choked the neighborhood – it was like any other; a Fourth of July party had been thrown the day prior at the Jefferson's – however, the man's mind was elsewhere. Fear in the world had escalated quickly. Nuclear missiles now came equipped with hair triggers, given to the likes of men who would use them in a heartbeat. Those men were giants. Byron sat on his porch, an ant, contemplating with the darkness.

Inside, Byron's wife, Marie, quieted their disturbed ten-month-old son. The heat wave that had hit earlier in the week - Marie had watched so much about it – had caused the child fits nearly every night.

Marie soothed the infant with a wet wash cloth and tried to calm him, saying, "My poor, poor, Mister Brian." Her "O's" flattened out into "U's" in an accented English. "Chubby Mister Brian."

After an hour of face time with the night, Byron picked himself up off the porch and went inside. Brian was settled now, signaling the end of their night. He tried his best to leave the worry he felt outside. But, as had happened the night before and the one before that, his thoughts screamed at him relentlessly. What little he had meant everything to him. He knew, family was all a man could have that was truly priceless. He rolled over in bed and looked out the window open across from him. The darkness glared back.

---

Someone was screaming. A shrill, unending note blocked out all sound. At first, he thought it was Marie. But it could not be, in the distance he could distinctly hear her voice. A jolt caused Byron to roll over.

"Wake up!" His wife screamed from behind the wall of noise.

The sound persisted. A slap glanced across his face.

"Wake up!"

Reality hit him in a wave. Byron sat straight up, immediately awake. He turned to see his wife in the dim light, face red and damp, looking at him terrified. The two said nothing to each other and bolted from the bed. Byron ran down the hall, Marie to the crib – trying desperately to calm herself and the baby. The sirens in the distance shrieked death; a hose turned on their anthill. Byron stormed the kitchen, grabbing all he could in way of aid and general sustenance. Though the two had planned this, and on a handful of occasions walked it through, the pressure choked Bryon more than he'd expected. A wet heat had set in around his brow, while at the same time the back of his neck chilled like ice; his stomach only a void. As he gathered, cans and bags of dry grain spilling over his grasp, he heard the slamming of the back door as it opened and his baby boy crying. Again, Brian was the signal. Leaving what fell from his arms behind, he hurried out the door. The night greeted him with a muggy embrace.

The door to the bunker was already open. Byron made his way inside the first entrance and put down the supplies. He looked out into his backyard for one last time. His house, the yellow he'd always hated so much but his wife had loved. His lawn, the stubborn thing, it'd taken him years to get it growing right. The pool that he and Marie had always dreamed about. Gone. A loud clunk and metal door now filling its space. Byron finally collapsed under a huge wave of nostalgia and fear. He looked down at his hands, trembling terribly. All was not lost. He looked down the stairs and gathered himself; righted his breathing; brushed off his pants. When he finally reached the bottom of the bunker he saw Marie on her knees scrubbing the floor, a small amount of vomit still remained. She looked up, ashamed. Byron only put the supplies down and closed the bunker's second door behind him. Brian had stopped crying now, setting in an eerie silence.