Carol Amen - The Last Testament

If I sound calm as I begin this, Im not. Numb would be more like it. Drained, nearly hopeless. Im writing to try to hold on to my sanity. Its something to do, a discipline. I will make every effort to tell what happened, no matter how painful the telling is. I want this record to be accurate, and in sequence.

March 23. Tonight as I fixed dinner and wrestled with self-pity because Tom had phoned saying hed be staying late in San Francisco, the entire Eastern Seaboard was wiped out.

I had the TV in the kitchen tuned to the evening news from New York. When the video went off there was a bright pop. Then the screen went dark.

I moved to jiggle the knobs, expecting the usual apology about technical difficulties, although now that I think of it, the sound was off, too. No static, no flickers nothing.

Suddenly he picture came back, with an excited San Francisco announcer shouting, Listen! Listen! Were being attacked! The mans voice rose and broke.

Radar sources confirm. Many Eastern cities have already been destroyed.

The East, I thought, panic rising in my throat. My brothers Atlanta home.

Mary Liz and Brad, our older children, stared with me at the television. If only Tom were here. Maybe he would tell us it was a stunt, some Orson Welles trick for audience reaction. But as I looked at the TV crew, I knew it was no prank.

The announcer was hysterical. Over and over we could hear, Massive retaliation. Was my brothers family really gone?

Then came the same flash on the screen, only this time we could see it all around us. An eerie light coursed and flickered hideously.

Tom, I screamed. Tom! Was that San Francisco?

Scottie, almost three, began wailing as Mary Liz, Brad, and I ran outside. Brad, whos twelve and very logical, questioned whether we should look south toward the intense light. At fourteen, Mary Liz seems infinitely older than I. She didnt move her gaze for a second.

I thought it would be like a giant mushroom, but it was more of an inverted mountain. I stood transfixed as its funnel pulled life from the place my husband had been at three oclock. Tom. Oh, Tom, I whispered.

Other explosions, more distant, erupted like visual echoes to the first. I think there were six or seven.

Scottie whimpered and clung to my legs. Automatically I picked him up, just as the ground trembled beneath us. Earthquake. Oh God, not that,too!

Daddy will come to us. I paused. He will if he can.

We went inside. I held Scottie close. Bad, get the transistor and turn it to the Civil Defense station. Somebody will tell us whats happening.

All my life Ive heard that should there be an actual alert we would be given emergency instructions. Back and forth we twisted the dials on the little radio, straining for the sound of authority, someone in charge. Nothing.

I ached to talk to my mother. She used to console me when I had nightmares. I reached for the phone, but there was no dial tone. Our electricity was off also.

Brad spoke excitedly. Mom, Mr. Hallidays radio set! Hes got emergency power.

In case Tom arrived, I left a note recording my intentions to go over to Ab and Bettys and the date and time: March 23, 7:15 PM.

The scene at Hallidays was like something from a bad movie. As the minutes and hours dragged by, more and more people arrived.

Ab was at his set and Betty darted in and out carrying terse bulletins. Seattle gone. Or, Just raised Yuba City. All safe. The brotherhood of hams was on duty those that were alive.

We drank coffee, spoke inanely to one another, and tried to comfort the children. Around eleven, Ab took a break and staggered out. Betty hurried to stand beside him. I felt his eyes bore into my very soul. He and Tom fished together.

San Franciscos gone, Ab said hoarsely. The entire Bay Area. I cant raise anyone there. Were on the fringe. Ive found only one ham closer to San Francisco than us. Sacramento is silent utterly silent. Southern California, too. A fellow in Twain Harte thinks they hit Yosemite. The sky is black with splinters trees and rocks coming down like rain. It mustve been a mistake. Theres nothing strategic there.

The room was deadly quiet. Were the lucky ones. Survivors. Folks I reached in northern California and Oregon. Rural areas. Small towns. Not near industrial or military installations. We may be cut off, but were not crippled or dead. Were lucky.

I gathered the children and came home. I thought of stories Ive read where a woman had lost a beloved husband. Those women shrieked, tore their clothes. I felt every bit as deranged as any story heroine I ever read about.

My husband. Oh, Tom. The dearest human being in the world. My rock. I am raw. My insides ripped out without anesthetic.

For hours I sat in Toms chair by the window, trying to remember. I could almost see the flecks of amber in his eyes, feel the bristly little hairs that grew on the backs of his hands. Once I thought I caught his unique scent. But I couldnt remember whether we had said, I love you, when he left at six that morning.

March 24. Parts of the day blurred. We ate. Washed dishes. Contacted friends. Feared the weather.

The sky is yellow and dark almost like liquid instead of air. And hot. Nothing like normal for a northern coastal town in March. I am afraid. I would like to erase Abs words, Were the lucky ones.

Brad and I decided that if by some miracle Tom is on his way home, we might need gas to drive to a safer place. We went down to our regular station.

A ripple of fear shot through me when I saw Slim perched on a stool by the pumps with a rifle across his knees, directing his son in filling the tank of a battered Chevy.

For a minute I considered driving away, but Slim came over and spoke politely. Mornin, missus. Your mister get home last night?

Hed planned to stay late in the city. We thought for awhile I took a firmer grip on the wheel. It looks like he didnt get out.

I saw pain on the weathered face. Tom often took Teddy, Slims retarded son, along on his fishing trips. I used to begrudge, occasionally, that Tom spent precious time with this boy when his own children seldom saw him. Then I would feel guilty for my resentment.

Gas, missus?

What are you charging?

Its free to my regular customers, Slim replied. Dont figure credit cards is much good now.

But I can pay. This is your business, not a charity.

I done some thinking last night, missus. Me and Teddy dont need much. Food and a roof. When the gas is gone, well plant a garden. Go fishin.

Brad leaned across the seat as Slims son unscrewed our gas cap.Then how come youve got that rifle, Mr. Sutton?

Just because Im givin gas away dont mean Im a fool. Theres been people here wantin fill-ups. Them thats never seen the inside of this station,nor didnt have the time of day for Teddy.

My face burned and I chose my words carefully. Ill accept the gas, Slim, if youll let me have you and Teddy over for a meal. I want to repay you somehow.

This gass been paid for, missus, that it has. More than once. I just hope you can use it.

On the way home, we saw a crowd at the Catholic church, and went in. The mayor was huffing and puffing. Robbery of drugs from the pharmacy. Gas a hundred dollars a gallon at some stations. Might have to invoke martial law. He also advised drinking only bottled water and eating canned food. I felt like laughing. A bomb that could level a city and shoot debris into the sky a hundred and fifty miles away probably wouldnt have much trouble finding its way into my apricots.