"Day 28 of The 41 Nights"

(The first pages of my novel, Air & Gravity. Also available as an e-book. Text and images (c) 2016 Stu Jenks.

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Sunday, September 11th, 2061, 11:07 a.m.
Day 28 of The 41 Nights
St. Thomas Episcopal Church
Downtown Tucson, Arizona

“All creatures of our God and King,” sings the congregation. No organist. She’s gone. No choir up behind the altar. They are down among us now. Father Steve’s singing in front of the altar. At least he hasn’t run away.

“Lift up your voice and with us sing, Alleluia, alleluia. Thou rising moon in praise rejoice. Ye lights of evening find a voice. Alleluia. Alleluia.”

The power went out three weeks ago, and now Mom doesn’t speak. At all. I wish Dad were here but he died last year at the start of all this crap. I’m thirsty, hungry and scared. Good news is I haven’t been to school in a while. I hate Mr. Kelly, my sixth-grade teacher. What a jerk.

Nice line in that hymn about evening lights finding voice. Too bad it’s not true anymore. There are no lights in the evening, save for the bonfires and the burning buildings. And most of the voices I hear now are screams. Horrible screams.

We stayed in our house the first few days after the electricity died, but left two days ago because we ran out of food, drank up all the water in the tub, and the gunfire just never stopped. Never stopped. Just got worse. And more bodies on the sidewalk and in the street in front of our house and more screaming. I wish I were a better shot, but I’m not. I have to protect Mom somehow. Nobody else will do it. I feel for my dad’s .45 revolver in my belt. I look over at my mother sitting next to me in the pew. Her lips are moving but no sounds come out. Mouthing the words. Mouthing something. Thank God, we’re at St. Thomas’ now and with Father Steve and the congregation of what? 20, 25 people? Just old men and women, a few gay guys and three families like Mom and I.

I don’t think we’ll starve but we may die. No. We will die and soon.

But I’m not going to let anyone hurt my Mom. I simply wish she’d start talking again. I used to hate her voice. Now I need her voice.

“Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!” we sing. “Alleluia, alleluia. Thou rushing wind that art so strong. Ye clouds that sail in Heaven along. Alleluia, alleluia.”

I hold my mother’s hand. I squeeze it. I get nothing back. She doesn’t look at me, but I still hold her hand.

Will the rushing wind takes us up to Heaven, Mom? Eventually but not quite yet. I’m not going down without a fight.