Melani Schweder - 72 Hours till Doomsday

As the sun gently dipped under the horizon and the sky faded to black, they could see a smattering of orange flames dance in the distance. The soft rumblings that followed, slow and deep like thunder, told them what was coming. Coming straight for them.

He always prayed to her on days like these, when the Western winds blew, the sun beat hard down upon their backs, their fingers gnarled from the picking; days when his back groaned, each muscle shouting at him, begging for rest, to lay on something soft and cool. When he could feel the ache deep in his bones, and hear the sighs of his children echo from the row over. Yes. Our Lady was there, listening to their prayers. Our Lady was always there.

A woman’s voice rose, low and mournful, above the dirt. Her song floated through the field, too early to be beaten down by the day, her hope too fresh to be dried up under the California sun. There were only twenty of them in the field that morning—many of their fellow migrants had fled, seeking more stable work. The agitated chatter of the foremen must have scared them off, their worried faces, with their tightly joined and hushed conversations.

Matias knew there was something brewing, but he couldn’t afford to move his family again. His wife was sick, couldn’t pick the berries anymore. His two children had left school to help with their income, but it was just barely enough. They’d sold their extra truck to another man, planted their own modest garden, and bartered with their neighbors for corn and flour, but despite all of this, they were happy.

He knew that when his boots scuffed across those planks of wood and crossed into their tiny stucco house, there would be warm tortillas waiting for him in soft and fragrant stacks. Teresa said even though she was ill, the least she could do was cook for her hard-working family. Sometimes there were even clean jeans on the clothesline, the grass and strawberry stains only somewhat visible from the road.

Their daughters, Maria Elena and Gabriela, would always sing after supper, washing their chipped plates and sweeping the dirt from the living area. Then, as the light was washed from the sky, they would kneel on the plywood floor in front of their altar, light a candle, and offer their prayers and thanks. Our Lady would always smile down upon them, her hand held out in benevolent love.

That afternoon, just after finishing a Coke in the shade of the distribution truck, the air was punctured by the sounds of rapid gunfire. A girl screamed. The ones in the field dropped onto their bellies, the ones on the roads crouched and turned their heads, seeking loved ones. Violence wasn’t uncommon around those parts, but it was unusual in the middle of a working day way out in the farms. The two white foremen looked more worried than usual, hopping side by side into a big Ford truck, barreling down the gravel roads towards a neighboring farm. As they disappeared, Matias waved for his girls.

“Esta bien. It’s okay. Shh shh.” He held them tightly, like he’d done when they were young.

“Papa, that was close by here,” Gabriela said.

“Si. But we are safe. Let’s get back to work.”

“But the foremen are gone. Nobody’s here to see if we don’t.” She fingered a hole in her t-shirt.

“Maria Elena! What kind of woman are you becoming? Lazy? Eh?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but then thought the better of it. She always had a lecture waiting from her mother if she ever talked back. She couldn’t face another one of those right now.

“Right. We work!”

They allowed their father to lead them back among the strawberries, adding a fresh layer of stain to their fingers as the day progressed. The heat was oppressive, fueled by the unforgiving breeze, and they all took turns rewetting the bandanas on their necks, desperate for relief. So as the sun began settling down, a chorus of sighs filled the air. Lungs were filled. Backs were stretched. Matias caught glimpse of three men running towards them, could see the sweat shining on their brown faces, and watched as they stopped at the edge of the field, gesticulating wildly to the man working near there. Mere seconds later, the field was ablaze with voices, some shouting, some crying, some praying.

“They’ve been shot! They’ve been shot!”

“They’re after us next!”

“Run while you can!”

The news traveled quickly. That afternoon’s gunfire had signaled the deaths of many of their brethren, just a mile down the gravel road. The neighboring farm had become a field of blood after the bosses had pointed their weapons out among the workers, unloaded bullets into the men and women that toiled for them, desperate for control in their out of control world. The only piece of solace came in knowing they’d turned the guns on themselves in the end. They didn’t want to face what was coming. What everyone was whispering about.

The walk from the bus station to his quiet suburban neighborhood seemed longer than usual that day, the houses standing stagnant, their chimneys grazing the low grey clouds. Even the flower bulbs seemed hesitant to peek their faces out, maybe they knew something that Gregor didn’t.

Alice was standing in the kitchen, her hands busy scrubbing a biscuit tin. The scene was homey and comforting; the dappled light reaching through the curtains, the scent of blueberry and sugar sweeping into his nostrils, the figure of his wife in her new sneakers. Even the floorboard that squeaked didn’t rile him like it usually did. He was just happy to be home.

“Hello Muffin.”

She turned, drying her hands with a tea towel. A half smile.

“Hello Luv. How was your day?”

“Hmm. Interesting I suppose. I don’t think a one of us got a single thing done. It’s these blasted news reports. Got everyone squirrely.”

“Huh. Well, at least they’re not about to shut you down. Right? Public utilities always come through in a time of crisis.”

“Sure. I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s just something strange in the air.”

“There certainly is. When I went to the market today, nearly all the shelves were empty. Like they’d been looted. I only managed a bag of flour and a couple cans of soup before the whole thing just gave me the creepers. You should have seen it.”

“That’s odd.”

“I know. Oh, and we’ve gotten another notice on our mortgage. We’ve been late too many times now.”

Gregor settled into his favorite chair at the kitchen table, reaching to pluck a warm blueberry scone from the heap. He sighed, glancing around the room.

“I just don’t know what to say. You were the one who wanted to move up here to the ‘burbs. I said we can’t afford to, and that was even before…”

“Before what?”

“Before you lost your job. I mean, we have some left in savings. We can pull it out if you’d like. But then we wouldn’t be able to take our vacation to Spain this summer.”

Alice made a face, dropped the towel back onto its rung. She would never admit it, but she’d been unhappier than ever since moving here. Sure, the house was bigger and all the faucets worked, but it was straining not just their bank accounts but her sanity as well, especially now that she didn’t have the school to escape to. It was like all her strings were being pulled tighter and tighter, so taut they hummed, seconds from breaking.

He could feel her unease. It had become more palpable lately, leaking from her pores like vapor. He swallowed the last of his snack.

“Maybe... Maybe we should move back. Don’t give me that look. I know it was a lot smaller, but we could afford it. And it was close to the kids.”