The Zona by Nathan Yocum

room, my last material object; a monument.  I laid on it. Of course it was soaked but that didn’t matter.  I waited for my family.  I waited for Christine and Johnny to come home so we could leave together.  I watched the sun peek through rain clouds.  A rainbow formed overhead.  The water rose to mattress level. I rolled to a sit and let my legs dangle in the water.  From under the bed, a tiny hand reached for me.”

    Johnny lay under the bed, peaceful, unmoving.  In the panic of the tidal wave, he hid in the safest place he knew, under the bed of his parents.  The wave struck and carried his mother and his home away and yet he remained, trapped under the bed in the water.  Terence touched the hand.  It was real.  Terence’s chest clenched, his heart beat frantically.  He pulled the boy out.  Johnny was wearing his pajamas and blue galoshes.  His skin was a similar hue of blue.  Terence felt the boy’s necks and wrists.  He shook Johnny and screamed and moaned at the boy and God in equal parts.  Terence grasped the boy to his chest and rocked him, tried to force warm life from his own body to that of the child.  His mind groped for direction, explanation, anything sane and rational.  He lay down with the boy and closed his eyes.  He whimpered, lacking words.  

    “I awoke to thunder and wind whipping itself back to life.  Rain pelted my face.  I looked to the body of my boy and knew for the first time, truly knew, that he was never coming back.  I knew that he was gone, and Christine was gone, and my home was gone and the park and zoo and museums and all parts of a life I had lived within and loved.”
    Terence rubbed has hands together.
    “I was done with my beautiful life.  I waded to what was left of my neighborhood market and scavenged cans of soup and bottled water.  The shelves that stood were plentiful, there wasn’t enough life left in that part of the city to support looting.  I packed a bag of supplies for Chris and Johnny and left it on the bed, like coins for the ferryman.  I was that crazy with grief.”

    Terence walked back into the bedroom.  The water sloshed at knee level.  He set the shopping bag next to Johnny’s body and touched his face for the last time.  Terence slung his pack over his shoulders.  He had planned to order pizza when he got home from work the night before.  On pizza nights they usually played checkers.  Johnny was old enough to play by the rules, though he showed no aptitude for the game.  Terence stopped himself from thinking about it.  He knew he should be crying but he couldn’t do it.
    Terence wadded through downtown San Diego in the early morning light.  

    “The day before, when I left for work, I knew the storms weren’t right, that things were wrong with the Earth.  I knew the world was ailing and we needed to move east, away from the ocean. It was in my head.  I don’t know why I did nothing.  A man’s job is to protect his family.  He’s supposed to follow the right voice in his head, the one that tells him what’s wrong, what’s dangerous.  I went to work like it was a regular day, like the wind and Hell of the Earth wasn’t blowing down the coasts.  I ignored what was obvious.  Before leaving, Chris asked me if I could take some time off, if we could go visit her relations in Arizona ‘til the storms stopped.  I told her it wasn’t necessary. That the storms had to break up sometime.”
    Terence turned away.
    “I killed Chris and John.  Nothing is right after that.”
    Terence pushed the toe of his boot into the sand.
    “You ever love anyone?”
    Lead thought about it.  “Jesus…my mother too I guess,” he replied.
    “What about real women, not relation?”  Terence asked.
    “The ones at the fugee camp were older.  Young ones were removed earlier on.  Only ladies at Flagstaff camp were Marys or Goodwives.  Preacher ain’t supposed to take a wife anyway; doesn’t fit the life and purity.”
    Lead