https://vocal.media/authors/jessica-vaughn

Her fingers tremble as she wipes the blood pooling under her nose. She winces. The pain radiates behind her galaxy, green eyes. She smirks. The punch was worth it. Blood stained and with a broken nose, it would take several seconds longer for one of the Saints to recognize her. She could feel the spikes of their gloves puncturing her neck and their boots crunching bone. She shivers, erasing the image like an etch-a-sketch from her mind. Several seconds meant her life. 

She crouches next to the basement of the First Baptist Church. Once upon a time, this was her hometown. Is it still? Or just the ghost of a past long forgotten? Her fingers dig into saturated soil. She smears the blood and black dirt across her palms. She exhales and the memories flood back, like lightning flashing across the backs of her eyelids. The grit and tears burn. 

It only took a year, her thirteenth year of life to be exact. The day it started, she was sitting on the step of her back porch. The faded boards burned in the southern heat. A cucumber vine strangled the railing. Its yellow flower brushed against her bare, right arm as she stood. She could smell the rain. The darkness of the coming storm masked the fog of panic that smothered her mother’s senses the moment she read the headline that appeared across the screen of her father’s phone. 

It took only minutes for her father to pack. Maybe he knew this day was coming. She always felt that the weary lines across his face were carved by cunning and strength. He sat her down on the edge of her bed, her fists balled into the purple comforter. He fastened a silver, heart-shaped locket around her neck, and tucked it neatly beneath the collar of her shirt.

“Never lose this,” he said, and she could tell by the aching tember of his voice that he meant it. “I love you,” she had said. “I’ll see you soon,” he smoothed the curls from her forehead and closed her door quietly. He never said, but she knew he was headed to her grandfather’s farm. She knew he’d be prepared for what was to come. He always said it was their best chance at survival. 

The TV was the first to go black. Then the phones. Everything was static. She assumed the farm is where they’d meet him, and her mother packed a small bag for her. It had flowers embroidered on the sides; the hibiscus was her favorite. Instead, her mother left her at a strange backdoor, with tears and lipstick stains across her cheek. She was taken into the arms of a sympathetic maid who snuck her into the Governor’s home as her own. 

A few hours later, chaos ensued. She clutched the locket as they hid in the musty depths of a fallout shelter. Three days later they emerged, eyes burning as they adjusted in the light. Her heart bled at the destruction that glared at her from the mansion’s window. She knew her mother had left her to ensure her safety. Bombs, invasion, aliens, diseases? She concocted theories, but everyone hid the truth. In fact, she sensed that they feared her, this small stranger that appeared in the clutches of disaster. 

Now, five disgruntled years later, her stomach lurches as she runs her fingers across the small heart dangling from her neck. Rubbing it in her hands, she covers it in red and black, hiding it’s silver glint. She bites her tongue and darts from the shade of the house. Her eyes narrow. She focuses on a black truck flashing it’s dusty, red brake lights. It’s parked beside a crumbling clothing store, and it’s driver leans eagerly out the window. He motions her forward, eyes wide and ocean blue. 

She takes a cautious step and inches onto the sidewalk. She grinds her teeth hard and swallows. One, two, three, four, five, she counts the Saints in skin-tight, black suits. The gold line emblazoned straight down their center is blinding, like angels bursting forth from the sun. They’re stationed periodically at each street, and she knows they’re on high alert. 

They maintain law, and she had crumbled every rule the moment she stripped from her maid uniform. She said goodbye to her second mother, Amelia. Amelia left her with her current disguise; a parting gift. They both know that no one leaves their station and survives. She could be sure that her face was flashing red on the palm of every Saint that surrounded her. She hoped her broken face would confuse any attempt to discern her identity. 

As she approaches, Eric flings the passenger door open and she lunges into the truck. Her feet crunch against the rusted floor board. His heart pounds like the hooves of a race horse as he reaches for her hand. 

“Shelby, you’re hurt?” his breath is sharp. 

He fidgets with the keys. He reminds himself to breathe. He knew he had married disaster the moment he sat beside her under the stars. She had talked of her family, and when he delicately opened the locket she hid in the palm of her hand, he had known instantly her father’s intent. Her father left her with numbers engraved on the inside edges of the locket. Eric sat with her as her fingers smoothly traced around the tiny indentations, waiting, praying for answers.

He coughed and mumbled, “it’s a frequency.” 

“A what?” She gazed at him, her eyes dazzling, churning like stars. 

“I bet they’re waiting for you. Meet me on Tuesday?” 

Her eyes narrowed, and her voice cracked with a sudden sense of caution, “where?” 

“I’ll leave a note for you, on the window seal. The one outside of the kitchen. I can get you to a ham radio, you know?” 

That was all it took. He wouldn’t tell her that he was looting in the nearby houses. He certainly wouldn’t tell her it was the shimmer of her locket in the moonlight that drew him to her in the milky, midnight darkness. 

Now, it’s Tuesday, and in mere moments they would be surrounded if he didn’t move quickly. He digs his fingernails in the crumbling steering wheel. His willpower urging the truck forward. 

They pass two more salvage cars on their way out of the city, and forty-five minutes in, the air turns thick. It rakes down the back of her throat like ravenous claws. She coughs, and it rattles her lungs. The haze makes her dizzy, and she sighs when he turns off the highway onto a gravel driveway. The rhythmic churning of the wheels suddenly soothes her. She loosens her grip on her knees and listens to the unfamiliar sound of birds chattering. The dense trees hide a clearing. A cabin and several tents line its radius. The truck stops just short of the cabin, and a smile twists the corners of her lips. She turns to Eric, quiet but eager. The door clicks open and creaks on its hinges. It echoes and he cringes. His feet hit the ground, and he motions for her to follow, “the radio is inside.”

——–

In a faded blue rocking chair, Grandfather sits with eyes closed and deep lines etching across his brow. His forehead furrows in concentration. His right hand twists across the knuckles of his left, and his foot taps lightly against the concrete floor. He’s been waiting patiently, and he quietly counts the years over again. In a brief moment of static his heart lurches like a rocket, and his dark eyes flicker open. His mouth curls in recognition. When the sweet static finally whispers, “I’m coming home,” he knows it’s his Shelby. He takes a deep breath and coolly and ever so collected, he reaches for the button. He says,  “I’ll see you soon.” 

The hope he prayed for shines like early morning dew across his face. He smooths his grey hair and pulls a toothpick from his pocket. She would come and she would be followed. They knew that much. They were waiting. “We’ll be ready,” he sighs.