Susan

Susan was in the back seat, still angry with Artemis, sliding six new bullets into her big revolver, hoping that she wouldn’t need to fire it again, when the chill passed through her. As indefinable as life itself, as real as the weapon in her hand. She gasped, looking to Arty. And he was already turned to her, on his face a look of contrition so unguarded that it tore her heart. Suddenly the world brightened, flashing a pervasive light. Susan didn’t turn her eyes from Artemis, didn’t look out the rear window of the white bronco because she was sure that she would see a dark, roiling cloud dotted with crumbling buildings, tumbling cars, and broken trees. But she had to look didn’t she? So she did, and through the rear window she saw devastated Charleston. Rubble littered streets, broken windows, oily smoke from dozens of fires that no fire department would ever respond to, but that was all. No roiling cloud of destruction, no horrifically magnificent blooming mushroom of fire rising like an insatiable monster.

The Guard

He took a last drag from his cigarette, and then looked at the smoldering butt. Something told him to take another. He did, not looking at the cloudless sky. It would be a long day, the vampire Ramzke was asleep, or whatever the state was he entered during the day, and there would be little to do. He took yet another drag, the tobacco almost burned to the filter. He didn’t look up, didn’t know why. He released the cigarette, watching as it fell to the scrubby grass in the farm’s lawn. Placing his boot on it, he ground the smoldering butt into the Earth. Ground for a good long time, taking his precious time, pondering how little was given. He told himself he didn’t want to start a fire, but inside there was something more— just a feeling, maybe only a trace of a feeling. When he was sure it was out, sure that danger had passed, any danger had passed, he looked up, smiling at the sun in the blue sky.

Susan

She turned back to Artemis. “Did you?”

He gave a small shake of his head, his eyes never leaving her face. “I think so.”

“We didn’t see nothing kiddies,” Todd croaked, his voice hoarse from the smoke, dust, and excitement of the morning’s gun battle.

But Susan knew she had. They all had. An apparition, a thought, a glimpse into another universe, another time. Whatever it was, it was no longer a part of this world. It was dead, gone, and they were alive, and here. She reached forward, grasped Artemis’s hand, and smiled.

Anatol

Anatol Vorishnov courted his wife, Anna, when he was stationed with the 24^th Spetsnaz Brigade near Kyakhta. It was a small town, no more than 15,000 people, but the memories were the fondest of his life. There was an old ornate theatre, where Anna and he saw the poorly acted Russian movies, most of them patriotically slanted, most of them about the Great Patriotic War. There were several outside cafés where they laughed and drank strong coffee. And then there was the river, the Kyakhta River. It ran wide, slow, and amazingly clean. In it they would swim. It was on one sun-soaked August afternoon, on the banks of the Kyakhta, that they first made love. Four months later, on Christmas Eve, they were married in the town’s grand orthodox cathedral.

Anatol sat in that cathedral now. He could tell it was summer, the massive oak doors stood open as the Sunday worshippers poured in—talking and laughing among themselves. Beside him sat Anna, her wheat-colored hair gleaming in the soft morning sun pouring through the church windows, her sea-green eyes sparkling, her hand warm in his.

Of course this wasn’t real. How could it be real? He was dead, much of

Russia

was a radioactive wasteland. Yet he heard the voices, saw the colorful peasant dresses the woman wore, and the plain, yet clean shirts on the men. Yet he was dead. This couldn’t be real.

He turned to Anna and spoke.

“Anna?”

She smiled.

“Anna, I love you.”

Her voice was a beautiful as he remembered. “And I love you, Anatol.”

It was real enough for him.