Kyle Pratt: Through Many Fires

Lieutenant Turner gestured. “You can sleep in the parking lot of the Border Market.”

Caden looked back over his shoulder.

“And frankly sir, you look like you need some sleep.”

He rubbed his face and stifled a yawn. “Is there any way I can get to Atlanta tonight?”

The officer shook his head. “No, not tonight.” He pointed again to the parking lot. “Get some rest. The road might be open in the morning.”

Caden drove into the parking lot that had become a makeshift community of more than fifty cars, vans and trucks. Several families cooked food over camp stoves. Dozens watched a television set up outside of a camper. Large “No Gas” signs hung from orange tape that circled the gas pumps.

If I can buy food I should save what I have in the cooler. I’ll check in a few minutes. He leaned back his head.

Caden bolted awake. His eyes shot from right to left. His heart raced and cold sweat covered his face. Two people walked casually by, silhouetted by streetlights. Had he been dreaming? Fading images of death and fire lingered in his mind.

He glanced at his watch. He had slept just over six hours. Stepping out of the car, he stretched and wiped his face with his sleeve. Before dawn, and continuing the final leg of his odyssey, there was his stomach to consider. He stretched again, locked the car, and walked to the convenience store.

“We’re out of most everything,” the clerk said as Caden entered, “and I’m only taking cash, no checks or credit.” Caden nodded and the man’s eyes quickly returned to a television that hung from the ceiling behind the counter. Five others leaned on the counter with him watching the news.

Caden walked down one nearly empty aisle and up another looking for anything he might need.

“Now back to the national news desk,” a television reporter stated as he finished his story.

“Thank you for that report. Rebecca Thornton is here with us now. She has compiled the latest information on the terrorist group claiming responsibility for the attacks.”

Caden’s eyes snapped to the television at the sound of his fiancé’s name.

“I told you they were terrorist attacks,” an older man said.

As Caden walked toward the television, he studied the studio background trying to figure out if Becky was in Atlanta or Birmingham. Could she have gotten to Birmingham during the night with roads so jammed? Could she have flown? He shook his head in frustration, unable to decide.

“Can I get you anything?” the clerk asked.

“No, just watching the news.”

“Where are you from,” another asked.

“Washington DC.”

“Were you there when the attack happened?”

Caden nodded.

“What was it like?”

Eyes fixed on him as he told the story of his escape from Washington.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m on my way to Atlanta to pick up my fiancé.” Caden pointed to the television.”

“Her? She’s your girlfriend?”

Caden nodded.

Around the counter, there was general approval of his choice.

Becky’s voice continued in the background as those beside him discussed how long it would take Caden to get to Atlanta.

A potbellied, middle-aged man in an angler’s vest said, “Under normal circumstances it would be just a couple of hours.”

“But the traffic is nuts south of here,” someone added.

The first man nodded. “Everyone is leaving the city.”

“They’re talking about making the freeway one-way out of the metro area.”

With a slow, southern drawl an older man at the end of the counter said, “Have her meet you here.”

Everyone agreed.

Static erupted from the television. Power failed. Darkness filled the air.

The store clerk, his mouth agape, retrieved a portable radio from behind the counter. He turned the dial until he found a Georgia station.

Caden heard what he already feared, Atlanta had been attacked. He walked out of the store into the chilly night and drifted across the parking lot. Some families ran to their cars and hurried north, away from the blast.

She’s dead.

No, perhaps she went to Birmingham.

So many have died. The ache in his heart ebbed and flowed between hope that Becky might be alive and despair that she and so many others were already dead.

He found himself on the edge of a group huddled around a radio. “The mushroom cloud is still climbing over Atlanta. Firestorms are raging throughout the metro…”

Caden walked away. He did not want to hear strangers announce the death of the one he loved. In a daze, he stumbled along the edge of the parking lot by the road. He hardly noticed the squeal of tires as he aimlessly continued onward. A horn blared. He was knocked hard to the pavement. A woman screamed. Gravel peppered the side of his face as the car sped away.

“Are you okay?” someone asked as he sat up.

He would be bruised, his face stung, but nothing seemed broken. He nodded. “Yes, I’m okay.”

The small crowd dispersed as if nothing had happened. Caden walked to his car, slid down beside it, staring straight ahead. He wanted to be angry with himself for not driving faster, for not insisting she leave, for not saving her, but he was numb and the only emotion he seemed capable of was guilt. He sat there until the first rays of morning light glowed on the horizon. A woman carried a small television from a nearby RV. She placed it on a table as a man adjusted a satellite dish on the top of the vehicle. An image snapped on the screen as a crowd formed. Caden didn’t want to watch, but the news was like a siren song that drew him in.

As the sun peeked higher, he learned that the bomb detonated downtown. One report mentioned the network headquarters building was gone and added, “It appears Rebecca Thornton was reporting live from the studio when the blast occurred. Here is her final report.”

The voice, the face, were cold steel stabbing his heart. He turned and stumbled toward a gray leafless tree standing alone in a nearby field. Caden’s eyes fixed on what must have been a mighty oak now broken and alone in the field. He stumbled toward the shell of the tree and collapsed against the hollow trunk.

He remembered the first time he saw Becky. He was just days out of the Army after a combat tour in the Middle East and had put off any serious relationships while in the service, but then he was willing to entertain the possibility. He had gone to the beach with friends. Becky, a fair-haired beauty with a soft southern accent, was the friend of a friend. She had intrigued him early on, but gave him scant attention. As he strolled on the water’s edge their paths crossed and they talked. It was then he found out she couldn’t swim. “Come on. I’ll teach you.” As they waded into deeper water, he placed his arm behind her. “Lean back. I’ll show you how to float.” As she did, he placed his other arm under her legs.

She smiled nervously. “Don’t let go of me.”

“Never.” He wanted to pull her in tight against him and kiss her, but she had the air of a southern lady, and he didn’t want to offend. He walked deeper into the surf as he told her how to hold her back and head. Suddenly he fell below the surface of the water. He had stepped off a ledge and was still sinking. Fish swam by as he looked up to see Becky flail in the ocean above him. He stroked and kicked with all his might as she sank into his arms. Holding her, he swam to the surface. She wrapped her arms tight around his neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he said as they surfaced.

She gasped for air.

“Hold on to my waist, I’ll take you to shore.”

As they came up on the beach, he explained about the ledge and apologized again, but he was sure that was the end of the relationship. Later that day she playfully accused him of trying to drown her, but her smile told him all he needed to know. That night they kissed.