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different as he broadcast—like a changed man. He spoke clearly, concisely, and with little emotions. “Radiation levels are steady at thirty Roentgens per hour. Staying below is still advisable. It is May tenth. It is a little after one PM. Over.”
    “At least …” I looked at the boys. “We’re not alone anymore.”
    I turned off the radio.

6. The Black Blanket  

    A change was immediately made to the ‘I’ll be there’ list. I placed a circle around Craig’s name, and next to that, I wrote the letter ‘A’.
    Alive.
    For the next several hours, we turned on the radio a couple of minutes before Craig was due. Then sure enough, like clockwork, he came on and did the exact same thing. Repetitiveness for security, I suppose. Two call outs to anyone to respond. A thirty-second delay, then Craig simply gave his name, radiation levels, the date and the time.
    Over.
    That was enough.
    I placed myself in the mindset of someone who had a radio, yet was unable to respond. How would I feel hearing Craig’s voice? Excited? Sad? Drowned in a reality nightmare that had no escape? I kept thinking Craig’s message served another purpose. His radio calls also sent signals to possible rescue crews. If there were a world intact outside of our hometown, then surely they knew after Craig’s call, that people were alive.
    I daydreamed quite a bit about what awaited us when we rose from the ashes and the dust. Firemen and military personnel donned protective clothing. They planned a strategy for ‘rolling in’ as the American Red Cross called out over the nation in a desperate plea for blood and food.
    ‘Come to the aid of your countrymen! Ten cities are down but not out! We must save them. Life will prevail.”
    That had to be what was going on. There had to be some news channel out their constantly covering what was happening in the cities that were hit. Rescue efforts. Speaking to experts about what we may be facing. Estimating the number of casualties, and urging fellow Americans to pray. Showing the president as he gave heart-wrenching speeches about courage and retaliation, all while every radio station remaining in America blasted hour after hour of patriotic tunes.
    It happened before in our history. American Tragedies. American soil attacked. America ... lives. So why not now?
    Those were my thoughts.
    And those were also my thoughts as I prepared to be my own rescue party and go after Matty.
    Once again the thrift store donation bags served a big purpose. Rummaging through them, I sought clothing that I could layer upon me. An old pair of jeans, a little tight in the waist, were covered by two pairs of sweatpants. I wore three shirts as well. Sam’s old work boots were my footgear, and gardening gloves covered my hands. With the exception of my sunglasses and the scarf for my nose and mouth, I was ready to go.
    Davy looked nervous. He really did. Holding Simon, I swore I could read his mind. He didn’t want me to go. For some reason my son felt he was the better one. Faster, as he put it. But my argument to that was my age. Resistance to radiation poisoning was stronger the older an individual was, and that was a medically proven fact.
    I had befriended a doctor through my frequent visits to the coffee shop. A lovely woman named Toni. Often confused, always seeking someone to talk to, Toni enjoyed speaking about anything as long as it didn’t depend on her diagnosing some bizarre illness. She wasn’t much into the ‘apocalypse’ topic at first, but her attention piqued as time moved on. She transferred to Chicago about three months before the attack and we kept in continual contact. Before she left, she gave me a gift. Something she knew I had been looking for. Usually people exchange cards, pictures, anything personal. But Toni, she handed me life. Her words to me were, ‘I hope you never need to use this. But won’t it be neat to add to your survival collection?’
    The gift—a potassium iodide equivalent.