Apocalypse Crucible by Mel Odom Page B

it’s gonna be bad.” Leslie’s words broke and grated.
    God, Megan prayed as she continued on trembling legs and knees that felt like watery ligaments, watch over us. Give Leslie the strength and guide me as I try to find a way to free her from the fear she feels. I don’t want to be shot, and I don’t want her hurt.
    Megan knew if Leslie fired on her, the MPs would rush the house in an effort to save her. Nothing would hold them back at that point. For the first time, she realized how much she had upped the stakes by choosing to pursue the face-to-face confrontation with Leslie. Megan looked around the house. She’ll be all right. We’ll be all right. She was raised by good parents. She just needs someone to talk to her and explain what’s going on.
    Although small and modest like most of the other base houses, the Hollisters had made their home comfortable and cozy. The living room held solid, carefully chosen pieces of furniture—a wide couch and matching his and her chairs facing an entertainment center filled with electronics.
    A collection of family pictures adorned the wall, showing the three Hollisters on vacations or at events. The images made Megan feel sad. Despite the challenges Leslie faced and those she had presented to her parents, Leslie had enjoyed a good life.
    But that was over.
    No, Megan told herself. Not over. Just changed. She remembered the church sermons she’d attended that talked about the glories that awaited believers in heaven. And the best is yet to come. She just had to find a way to convince Leslie of that.
    The living room adjoined the dining room, carefully presented and clean. Pictures of fruit and farmhouses hung on the walls. Linda Hollister had enjoyed success as a homemaker. The woman’s mark showed in every room in the house.
    Megan halted at the hallway off the living room. Bedrooms lay at either end behind closed doors. Television voices emanated from both rooms. More family pictures covered the hallway walls, showing generations of family in black and white as well as color. The family, both sides evidently, sported a long line of military men in uniform, on battlefields, and in front of tanks, ships, and planes.
    “Leslie,” Megan called.
    “My room’s to the right, Mrs. Gander.” Leslie’s voice sounded smaller and more scared.
    “All right.” Megan followed the hallway to the door. She placed her hand on the knob, watching with bright interest as her hand shook. “Leslie.”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m outside the door.”
    “It isn’t locked.”
    “I’m coming in.”
    “Okay.”
    Please don’t shoot. Megan took a final deep breath and told herself that talking with Leslie Hollister in her room wasn’t that much different than talking to someone in her base office. Only it was.
    She turned the knob and pushed the door open. Instinctively, she held her hands up and out at her sides and stood her ground, praying that her trembling knees wouldn’t give out.
    Posters of half-naked rock-star singers and actors covered all four walls. Guys in Speedos with wildly dyed hair and body piercings and tattoos warred with guys in unbuttoned flannel shirts, tattered jeans, and cowboy hats. Leslie’s interests apparently leaned toward a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll.
    Megan recognized fewer than half the faces on those posters, but the room possessed a familiar feel. During her teen years, she had covered her walls with posters of rock bands and Chippendale models. Her father had railed against them when he had found them, but her mother had campaigned for her right to self-expression. Teens struggled for individuality, and in doing so, tended to be like every other teen, never knowing they were so like their parents at the same age. Only the accessories were different.
    A notebook computer lay open on a small student desk next to a compact vanity cluttered with cosmetics, brushes, and curling irons. Small stuffed animals adorned the desk and the