The thundering death continued, dismissive of their cries, rattling the heavens above and the ground beneath their bellies with that repetitive, ablative pounding. Elton reached out blindly, by touch alone found Danielle enwrapped with the smaller form of Cuate, and crawled closer to them. He wrapped his arms around their shoulders and drew them both under his chest as well as he could, then threw a leg over for good measure. Every exposed inch of his body was pelted with debris, and beneath the horror of the attack, there was still that constant screaming.
Somewhere beyond eternity, the grinding, world-eating explosions stopped as abruptly as if God himself had flipped a switch, leaving only the sound of settling fragments, shouting that trailed off rapidly to sobbing, coughing, sniffles, wheezing breath. The moan of panting gasps.
Elton looked up, blinking painfully in the dust. The night had gone quite still with the exception of his peoples’ reaction to the onslaught. He stood from the wreckage, coughed, and as he fanned the dust hanging before his eyes, he saw the form of the man standing out on the edge of their own remaining firelight; many fires had been toppled over in the panic or completely smothered by the raining dust, but a few at the end of the lot still burned, albeit low.
Elton struggled with a wracking cough and stumbled forward a few steps. He held out his hands as he came and the man did not move.
Details were visible in the firelight, though he held himself at firelight’s boundary. A general suggestion of colors in his clothing; browns, greys, a touch here or there of black. His features were obscured, and though he was not a tall man, his breadth was apparent even in the shadows.
“Stay… stay…” Elton worked through another coughing fit, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Stay down, everyone.”
“They may stand,” the man said. “The weapons stay on the ground.”
Another sharp, solitary cough from Elton as he considered this. Then he looked at the men, women, and children crouched behind him and nodded. “Go ahead and get up. I think it’s okay…”
They began to climb to their feet. Many still fought through a chorus of sobs.
“What do you want?” Elton called.
“A selection of your people came to our home. Invaded. Killed.”
Elton said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.
“We’ve chosen to assume there will be no further attempts made. The rest of you will leave.”
Elton coughed, fanned more dust away, and asked, “What happened to the others? The ones you said invaded?”
The man lurched and swung an arm out in a long arc. The mass he’d dragged behind him sailed into the light; a large sack roughly four feet long and one foot in diameter, stuffed thick with whatever it contained. When it hit the ground, the contents knocked like bowling balls wrapped in velvet.
“You have until noon tomorrow to leave. If you’re still here by that time, you will never leave.”
Danielle freed herself from Cuate’s grip and crept forward, eyes locked warily on the stranger, and approached the bag. As she knelt to take up its edge, they heard the man’s voice again. The sound of it was flat like an old recording.
“I’m very sorry. There is no place for you here.”
“Oh… JESUS CHRIST!” Danielle shouted. She kicked the bag away and stumbled back. Elton reached out to catch her before she could fall and when she felt his hands, she turned and clutched against him. At no point in his life had he seen her so unsettled, not even when she’d been half convinced of her own execution.
Elton looked back at the man, only to find he’d gone. All that remained was the sack and the oil drums burning down the street. Somewhere far off, they heard the fast diminishing sound of a diesel engine.
EPILOGUE
The invaders left without comment the following morning, their line stretching long and slow out of Lower Jackson—a meandering track of displaced refugees. Those who could still make the journey to the summit stood at the mountain’s edge and watched the defeated depart; the line of retreat wound like a broken snake, haggard and silent. Gone were the shouted jeers and whoops that had been offered upon their arrival; celebration in the face of a long-sought goal attained. In the aftermath of the conflict—of their numeric decimation—the only sound was the churning of their engines; the cries of their displaced children.
From his perch, Gibs could not hear these things, not physically. He heard the wind in the trees and the shifting feet of his friends standing next to him. He heard the sounds of the mountain as it whispered to him in the voices of the dead and watched the mottled line a few miles off, undulating and pulsing, sometimes fracturing and rejoining. His mind insisted to him that he could smell their desperation.
Two days later the first truck returned from the north. It was Davidson who’d seen them coming; who’d pulled them over. He sent for Gibs explicitly, having been given orders to bring him above all else, and when he arrived and saw the way of things, Gibs inspected their truck to determine what was lacking. He commanded their diesel to be refilled, and the last of the commune’s canned rations were loaded into the back along with a few sacks of potatoes, various bags of dried seed, and a list of instructions regarding water and soil requirements, optimal climates, growing seasons, and cultivation. He told them the direction they should travel and that they’d best hurry; the main body had a head start of two days.
Gibs watched them drive off; stood looking long after the others had left. There was a war churning inside of him.
No other trucks came back to Jackson after the first arrival.
He remained long enough to confirm Alan’s recovery. When they discovered his body amid the destruction of the valley entrance, they’d feared at first he was another casualty. It had taken Olivia to determine he’d survived the blast, hypothesizing the only factor that saved his life was that the fougasse had been thirty yards down the track at his remove and directed away from his position. Even so, the shockwave had inflicted a severe concussion, leaving him bedridden for a week and a half, and Olivia cautioned him there was an excellent chance he would be stone deaf until the end of his days. Greg insisted his brother be reinstalled in his home to convalesce; Alan took up his old position on the couch while his older brother fussed over his recovery, pushed and prodded, obsessed over his comfort, and generally made of himself a pain in Alan’s ass.
Within four days of his retrieval, Alan decided it was time he began moving under his own power. Not coincidentally, it was also this time that he learned the impact of the explosion might not be limited to his hearing alone. Balance was a newfound challenge. He discovered he couldn’t stand without holding on to something sturdy—not for lack of strength but a general lack of center. He could come upright without too much trouble if he gripped a table but as soon as he stepped away, the floor rushed up to meet him. Such things never ceased to take him by surprise; his own inner gyro informed him at all times that he was traveling straight and level. It was his eyes that lied to him, he felt, and when the world began its unstoppable tilt, he always rode giant wave of vertigo on the way down.