Agoraphobia

Day 770 (Battle Stations)

It was early June, just a little over two years after humanity had become radically anti-alfresco. It was dawn. Outside, the cicadas droned, foreboding another day of scorching heat. Grandpa Kevin had just made Uncle Peter and me a big breakfast of buttered toast, eggs, fried apples, muffins, and tea. We ate it all. (You burn a lot of calories working a farm, so it's difficult to eat too much. Uncle Peter was pot-bellied before the peak. Not anymore.)

I patted my full tummy and glanced out the window for no particular reason. That's when I spotted him. He was about half a mile down the road, rolling towards us. A man in a wheelchair. There were two animals with him. "Look!" I shrieked, pointing stiff-armed out the window.

Uncle Peter spun in his seat. Staring out the window, his relaxed body suddenly became stiff. He frantically ran to the bell and sounded the alarm. "Red alert! Battle Stations! To arms! To arms! This is not a drill! Red alert! Battle Stations! Red alert! Battle Stations! This is NOT a drill!"

Everyone was woken up by this racket, and within a minute, most of the community was dashing foolishly about.

I brought in the rifles from the porch and distributed them to those who had been trained to use them. Then I yelled, "All non-combatants to the cellar!". But by that time, Grandma Maud, Jeannie, and the rest had already escorted themselves and the kids to the cellar. The only straggler was Wendell. I scooped him up and put him down with the rest. I closed the cellar door. Finally, I grabbed my hunting rifle and backpack. I was ready.

Everything had calmed down. No one was rushing around because everyone was finally where they were supposed to be. An armed adult was positioned on each side of the house.

"What can you see?" asked Uncle Peter, standing next to Grandpa Kevin. "It's Frank," reported Grandpa, handing Uncle Peter the binoculars. "He grew a beard since I last saw him a year ago, but that's definitely Frank. He's waving a white flag. He doesn't appear armed. Unless you count the dogs. They could be trouble."

Uncle Peter looked out the window with the binoculars himself. He grunted. "It looks like they are alone. But there could be a whole army hidden in the woods."

Uncle Peter came over and knelt beside me. "It's crucial one of us survives. If you and I are both killed or captured, everyone else here dies, too. I'm going to talk to Frank. There should be no shooting, but if there is, I want you to take your hunting rifle and run into the south woods. Hide for two days. Make sure it's safe before you return. If you're in the woods and you see just one soldier, kill him. If you see two or more soldiers, run. Can you do that?"

"Yes," I answered with confidence I didn't feel. Killing deer and coyotes was one thing. But shooting a person? My large breakfast slid around in my stomach.

Uncle Peter gave me a reassuring smile. Then he unshouldered his hunting rifle and went outside.

Uncle Peter cautiously approached Frank and his dogs. Fortunately, the dogs didn't act the least bit hostile. In fact, they wagged their tails so hard their keisters almost fell off. Peter and Frank talked. Then they came back to the house with Peter's gun pointed at Frank's back the whole time.

Uncle Peter locked Frank's two dogs outside when he rolled Frank into the living room. Frank looked grubby. Like a long-haired, dirty Jesus.

Uncle Peter asked me for my duct tape so he could secure Frank's arms to his chair's armrests.

"Is this really necessary?" protested Frank as Uncle Peter applied the tape.

"Yeah," he answered curtly.