Week 13: Invasion

"This is 9-1-1, we already know. Arm yourself and lock your doors. Good luck and God bless." 

The line dropped after that, the long buzz of an empty call rang in her ear as she gaped open mouthed at her mother. 

"They hung up on me," she said, dumbfounded. She put the receiver back on the handle, the old phone making a tiny echo of a ring as it settled back into its place. 

"What do you mean they hung up on you?" her mother replied. Her face already white from pain, her arthritis acting up from the stress, went whiter. "9-1-1  hung up on you?"

"Yes. They said, good luck, arm yourself, and God bless." 

Her mother shook her head, "No. No that can't be." 

Another large boom sounded from outside the apartment, closer this time, shaking the walls. The lights flickered once, twice, but held steady. 

"I should go find a flashlight - or candles in case the power goes out." The daughter walked over to the tiny kitchen and started to search. 

"What if they make it this far into the city? What will we do? We don't even own a gun." 

It was the first time Leann had heard real fear in her mother's voice. Concern, nerves, yes, but real fear was new to her, foreign as a discovered mole on your arm. You wonder how long it's been there, unnoticed, until a sunburn forces you to examine your skin, searching for signs of cancer.

"We'll be fine. The military . . . they'll take care of it." Leann reassured her, trying to force her face into a calm facade. "We're in the middle of the city. No way they get to us." 

 A scattering of pops sound from far below on the street, tinny noises that could almost be fireworks if it were any other time of the year. A pair of explosions, like lightening and thunder shook the apartment again, causing dishes in the cupboards to rattle and break. The lights flickered off, the electric sounds of the city powering down at one time, a defeating sound. Leann could hear the frantic breathing of her mother from across the room.

Normally she would be able to use the street lights as backup lighting to cross the room, but even those were killed with the power. Darkness she had never experienced before in this city engulfed her, and it seemed like the world ended two inches from her face, blind from her surroundings. 

"Lee?" her mother whispered. "You still there?" 

"Of course. Still here," she whispered back. There was something about this dark that seemed thick and impenetrable, like shifting through a swamp of molasses; sticky, impossible.   "Still here," she repeated.

She edged her way across the room, hands in front of her, when another explosion hit the building across the street from theirs. Blinding light flashed, followed by a deafening boom. Debris hit the side of their building, crashing through the glass windows in fist sized pieces, rolling across the carpet. The building burned, flames engulfing the steel as it collapsed. It seemed to fall for hours, as Leann watched what was once thought as a permanent fixture in her vista crumble. 

Her mother started to cry and Leann, able to see her now with the fire providing the needed light, leaned over and wrapped her arms around her, squeezing. Glass crunched under her shoes as she leaned into her mother. "Still here, Ma. Still here."