As I again looked at the faces around me and saw the blatant fear that defined each of them, I wondered to myself if this was all that was necessary to break our society.  If our gadgets didn’t work, if our technology was rendered useless, were we once again the very savages from which we’d tried so hard to distance ourselves?  Was it all to be superstition controlled by terror of the unknown?

I clicked the remote and turned the television and satellite receiver off before reaching down and turning the weather radio off.

I stared into my mother’s face and realized I’d never seen it distorted in such a way.  It had changed so much in so short a time.  It was only fifteen or twenty minutes ago when Old George began whistling that tune.

Could the world really change in twenty minutes?  For all of us except Helene, that idea had been very real during the Cold War.  We knew it would take the push of a single button to end civilization.  But this was different.  There had been no nuclear exchange.  There had been no explosions at all that I knew of.  There was only an unusual dream shared with the rest of humanity, and that followed by an unusual weather event that seemed to defy what we understood about the atmosphere.  Would these two seemingly unrelated events, neither of them normal in any way, redefine life as we knew it?  Looking at Mom’s face and seeing how it had already changed her, I had my answer.

In my heart I was terrified.  For me at least, the horror was as much not having information as it was the dream—at least the implications of the dream.  It had driven a blade of fear deep within me without ever threatening me directly.  Is that all it would take?  All you needed to do was break our technology, throw a bit of mysticism at us, and tinker with the weather and—voilà!—you’d have the perfect recipe for the end of the world.

I glanced at Dad as he held my mother closely and tried to comfort her with reassurances he himself didn’t believe, and then I looked at Old George, Helene and Margaret still huddled together in the doorway.  They forced me to concede the point: We were nothing more than scared savages hiding behind our scientific wizardry and electronic devices.

We were barely out of caves and animal hides and already thought of ourselves as masters of the universe.  We could be thrown back to our primitive roots simply by taking away the things we used to separate us from the big bad world: information and technology.  If we can’t explain it, it must be metaphysical or worse.  If we can’t scan it, report on it, catalog it, categorize it, dissect it, and otherwise study it, we won’t face it.  My fear leaped into my throat at the realization of our predicament.

“Okay, listen.  They said the storm is moving around 20 miles an hour.  If that’s true, and if one is forming over Shreveport, it’ll be here soon.  Why don’t we just ride it out here and let it blow over?”  My voice seemed alien to me somehow.  I heard the words and felt my mouth spewing them, but they wouldn’t have convinced me of anything if they’d tried.  It was nothing more than filler to break the silence and I knew it.  I hoped they didn’t know it as well.

“Daddy, we should go home,” Helene suggested as she looked up at George.  “Please, Daddy, let’s go home.”

He looked down at her, and then he looked at his wife.  Margaret was barely moving but was obviously shaking her head ‘no’ in response to both her daughter and her husband.  She didn’t want to leave.  Strength in numbers, eh Margaret?

George lowered his head to face Helene directly.  “Honey, you heard them reporters, and Davey’s right about the storm gettin’ here soon if’n it’s movin’ as fast as they done said.  Maybe we oughtta stay here for now, dontcha think?”

I could see fresh tears on Helene’s face and the growing spot on her father’s shirt that had been absorbing them while he held her.  The fear in the room was palpable.  I thought she might be drowning in it but knew her parents were the best comfort she could find.

I quietly whispered to my mother and father that I was taking the dogs out prior to the storm’s arrival.  Both canines still nestled quietly on the love seat in the corner of the room.  Ah, to be a dog at times like this, I thought.  Look at them.  They aren’t concerned with all the hoopla.  They aren’t worked up about unusual news stories and weird dreams and extraordinary weather patterns.  They’re snoozing away the afternoon without a single care.

I’d have traded places with them in an instant.  I didn’t realize then that that sentiment would change soon enough and make me glad I had not been able to make real my wish to be one of them for the afternoon.

Both Dad and Mom quietly agreed and said they’d join me.  They stood as I called to the dogs.  “Mosko, Brogan, come on!  Let’s go outside!”

I feigned excitement when I spoke to them; I felt no such thing.  Nevertheless they responded and leaped to life, scrambled down from the cushioned comfort they enjoyed, and practically fell over each other racing to the door.  Their feet scratched and slid on the hardwood floor as they focused all their energy on what to a dog must be the crux of existence: going outside.  Well, I assumed it was the pinnacle of canine life so long as food wasn’t being offered as an alternative.

Margaret and George were continued to comfort Helene trying to convince her they should stay until the storm passed.  Mom, Dad and I respectfully stayed out of the discussion as we made our way by them and to the door that led to the screened-in porch.  The dogs were already waiting to escape with tails wagging uncontrollably and tongues lolling out of their mouths in anticipation.

Before opening the door, I grabbed two large towels from the bench beside the entrance.  I kept a handful of large beach towels there just in case the dogs visited.  They loved to swim in the lake, but they also were quite adept at finding all sorts of messes to get into.  Having something available to clean them up or dry them off was a necessity.  I stashed the towels under my arm, reached out and opened the door, then followed the dogs and my parents out to the porch.

The sun shone brightly in the early afternoon sky.  It was just beginning to peek into the porch itself, but the heat and humidity were already present.  I couldn’t help but think it might be a good idea for the storms to come this way.  At least it might cool it off a bit.  It was so oppressive that perhaps the end of the world was a good idea right about then.

I promptly killed that thought.  I didn’t need my dark sense of humor and devil-may-care attitude causing any more upset for the others.  I had a feeling there was plenty of that on its way and it wouldn’t need any help from me.

The dogs stood at the screen door waiting for their chance to leap from the porch and dash out into the world.  Dad reached them first and pushed the door open.  Both dogs bolted out, made the sharp turn northward toward the lake, and ran excitedly to the pier.  The three of us had barely reached the corner of the house nearest the lake when the first splash caught our attention.  Mosko was first but Brogan was right on his heels and dived into the water with complete abandon.

It again occurred to me how they hadn’t a care in the world under the circumstances.  Whatever was happening out there beyond Kingswell wasn’t bothering them.  That thought, in turn, made me realize how being disconnected from civilization for only a few minutes had already made me feel utterly cutoff.  I couldn’t understand how anyone could survive without constant news and communication.  It would drive me crazy—or crazier.

My parents and I walked slowly to the pier and followed its sturdy support out onto the lake.  Jutting into the water for nearly 20 yards before expanding into a large open deck, we made our way to the end of it without a single word.  It was as if the three of us could not form a coherent thing to say that wouldn’t bring us back to the same subjects we were trying to avoid.  It was an unspoken agreement, I eventually realized, that we shouldn’t talk about it since we had nothing but conjecture and guesses, and none of that would explain it or help the situation with emotions running so high.

We stopped at the end of the pier.  The dogs swam around perhaps ten feet away from us, first this way then that way, toward us then away from us, and always in such a carefree way that it suddenly fell out of my mouth: “Why aren’t they reacting?”

My voice slapped my parents.  The silence between us shattered unexpectedly from their point of view, and it was somehow a violation.  I regretted not starting with something unrelated.  Perhaps I should have said that the dogs seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.  Perhaps I should have said these kinds of canine antics are thoroughly entertaining.  Perhaps I should have said anything other than what I said, but the damage was done and it was out there.  And I still wanted to discuss it.

“What do you mean?” my mother asked.  She looked at me and then at the dogs.  It was then she answered her own question.  “You’re right, Vey.  They always react when a storm is coming.”

Dad glanced at both of us before saying, “I see what you mean.  Just before Hurricane Rita came through, they were in a big hurry to get outside and tend to business.  It was out, finish the job, and back in before we knew it.”

We turned to the east.  The horizon remained clear and normal, the edge of the sky’s cyan bowl cutting the world in two.  If the storm was coming this way from Shreveport—there was no reason to believe that wouldn’t be the first one to reach us if they were expanding the way the reports said they were—it must have been getting close already.

Thick woodlands around Carr Beholden made it impossible to see very far except in the open space of the lake.  It was possible the storm hid right behind the tree line and would soon leap over the foliage and be on top of us without warning, though at twenty miles per hour we should have an hour or more before it arrived.

We continued staring toward Shreveport, which was to the southeast from our location, and we waited and watched.  Nothing happened.  We stared a bit longer.  Still nothing happened.

Turning back to the dogs who continued to frolic and splash and swim sans any major cares, I asked “But what about them?”

“I don’t know, son,” my father said.  “It’s right odd, I’ll say that.”

“Maybe the storm’s not coming this way.”

I looked at Mom and knew immediately her words came from denial, a natural self-defense mechanism of the human mind, a way to spit in the face of unwanted certainty.  I appreciated the sentiment and shared it.  I also knew it was an empty hope.  If the reports were at all accurate, the storms were everywhere and spreading in every direction.  They would arrive soon enough.  The darkness would come to Kingswell.  I knew it and so did my parents.  The dogs were the only ones who didn’t know it or didn’t care about it.

While I dropped the subject verbally, it continued bouncing around inside my head.  Why aren’t the dogs reacting?  Why aren’t they concerned if a massive weather system was heading this way?

Animals know about these things even when humans don’t.  Again, if we didn’t have our technology, we’d never know for certain, but animals have a sensitivity to things in ways our own species lacked.  We lost the ability to sense at that level as not-always-fair trades for our intelligence.  We then lost more of those primitive senses in response to the application of our technology.

And yet the dogs were blissfully unaware—or was it unconcerned?—about the approaching storm.  It struck me as so highly unusual that I filed it away for contemplation later and would keep an eye on them to see if their responses changed.

I already had my answer though.  I knew it and kept it to myself.  They weren’t reacting because this was no ordinary storm.  This was not the kind of weather event they could sense, at least not in the way they could sense a hurricane approaching or the formation of a nearby tornado.  They weren’t reacting because this was unnatural.  Acknowledging that in my head sent a shiver down my spine and I shifted my weight on my feet to hide it.

The sound of the screen door shutting in the distance behind us caused each of us to jump slightly before turning around.  It was Old George, Margaret and Helene.

We left the dogs to swim and walked back the length of the pier to meet the family.  I suspected they’d decided to go home.  I hoped I was wrong.  I felt that that was a really bad idea but couldn’t explain why.  The whole situation was getting to me.  I was becoming paranoid without any definitive reasons for it.  Thus far, all we had were some reports about weird weather, a shared dream that seemed to be global, and some problems with television and radio reception.  Was that enough to warrant my apprehension?  I thought it was.

As I reached the McCreary family standing next to the screened porch, my parents only a short distance behind me, a doe and fawn trotted out of the undergrowth lining the private drive that connected Carr Beholden to State Highway 49.  The two animals paused briefly in the middle of the small road and looked at us.  We, in turn, looked at them.

With nothing but silence and about 25 yards between us, our group stood motionless looking at the pair as they watched us carefully.  Perhaps ten seconds passed with no one moving or speaking, and then the mother deer casually walked into the thicket on the other side of the road.  Her baby stood motionless for another few seconds before dashing into the woods after her.

I felt better seeing that.  They weren’t scared except of us.  They weren’t fleeing some unseen force rapidly approaching from the east.  They weren’t in a hurry at all.  They were casually strolling through the forest in the early afternoon, perhaps on the move to get away from a bobcat or some coyotes, perhaps searching for a meal, perhaps looking for a cool spot for their afternoon nap.

Regardless of the reason, they weren’t running from some unseen force.  They weren’t running because, like the dogs, they didn’t know or didn’t care about what was coming.  I tried to shake that thought from my head but couldn’t.  So I was grateful for the diversion when George spoke.

“We’re gonna get on home, Davey.  Helene’s worried ’bout the dogs, and Margaret and me are thinkin’ it’d be better for us to sit this’n out at home.”  The look on his face told a different story, as did that on Margaret’s face.  They were frightened.  They didn’t know what to do but thought it might be better to get Helene home because she thought that was the best place to be.

“I understand,” I replied, “but think about it George.  If that storm’s close, you could get caught on the road.  It might be best to wait it out here.  I’m sure it’ll pass quickly and you’ll be on your way before nightfall.  Besides, if the power goes out, at least you’d be safer here.  After Hurricane Rita, I did some major upgrades to the power and water facilities, so we’ll still have electricity, fresh water, plenty of food, and lots of space.  And there’s quite a bit to keep you occupied while you wait: there’s a whole library of books, a pretty big movie collection, games, and who knows what other trouble we can find.  It’s just a suggestion, but you might want to consider it.”

“I ‘preciate it, Davey, but I think we oughtta be gettin’—”

“Oh my God . . .”  It was Mom’s voice, only altered into a tone like fingernails on a chalkboard.  My head snapped around to look at her.  She stared up and out over the lake from the corner of the house near where we stood.

“What is it, honey?” Dad asked.

I walked over to join her.  The look on her face—the wide eyes and white complexion—told me George might already be out of time.

“Look at it.  Just look at it,” Mom said.

Everyone began moving to join her.  While we couldn’t see much from the side of the house because of the structure and the trees, her position at the northwest corner gave her a clear view across the lake.  She looked toward the east in the general direction of Shreveport.

I gasped when I stepped around the corner of the house and followed her eyes skyward.  It had arrived.  It was a storm the likes of which this planet had never before seen.  I completed that thought by adding to myself that it was a storm the likes of which this planet would never see again, at least probably since I wasn’t sure there would be anyone left to see it even if it did happen.

Painting the eastern horizon and reaching high into the sky was a billowing mass of blackness.  I wasn’t even sure it was made of clouds.  It was so dark that no details were visible.  It looked like a tear in the sky itself, a painting with the canvas pulled away to reveal the nothingness beneath it.

Watching it spread high above us mesmerized.  The silence of it deafened.  There was no wind and no lightning; there was nothing except expanding darkness.  It was a hole in the universe.  And it was growing in our direction.

The dark mass was as black as ink and equally featureless.  In fact, the darkness of it was so complete that it made it almost impossible to determine precisely how close it was or if it had any shape other than that of a smooth arc spreading over our heads.  I could tell it moved quickly but couldn’t judge more than that generalization because it washed away all frames of reference and was utterly without form.

What I could tell was that the top of the storm preceded the bottom.  The first comparison that came to mind was that of a wedding veil trailing behind the bride.  The top resting on her head arrived long before the bottom that dragged behind her.  I’d never seen anything like it.  That thought repeated over and over again in my mind.

Its darkness was complete.  The mass of clouds—or not-clouds—was as deep a black as midnight on a moonless night without a single star in the sky and no artificial light by which to see.  No, it was darker even than that.  Where the sun struck its leading edge, I could see no details.  A featureless void was eating the world, that’s what it looked like, spreading across the landscape and wiping away every detail in its path.  Even that visual didn’t do it justice.  Whatever this was, it wasn’t normal, it wasn’t natural, and it’s wasn’t friendly.

“Jesus Christ!”  George had reached our position.

“George McCreary!” Margaret scolded him.  “Don’t you dare take the Lord’s name in vain!”  She caught up to him and gave him a loving yet firm whack on the arm, then she looked up.  “Oh my sweet heavens!”

“There’s nothing sweet about the heavens today, Margaret.  Nothing sweet at all.”  I immediately wished I hadn’t said that.

Helene, like the rest of us, stood completely mesmerized by the approaching storm.  I likened it to watching a tornado form above your house.  There’s nothing you can do about it.  There’s nothing you can do to save your home or your life.  There is, however, the morbid fascination with watching pure destruction take shape and come at you from a close distance.  The view afforded us over the lake felt much like that.

It kept coming and seemed to grow darker and darker as it approached, more menacing, more desolate.  I knew that was impossible, yet it was so large and ominous and threatening that its presence overwhelmed the senses.

“Mosko!  Brogan!  Come on!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, and then to Margaret and George in a softer tone, “I really think you should stay.  Let’s see how this takes shape, huh?” 

I turned toward the lake to get an idea of the dogs’ whereabouts.  They stood on the shore.  They stood watching the storm.  They stood with tails tucked and ears back.  They stood trembling.

My head leaned to one side just as theirs were doing.  They’d noticed it finally.  Their reaction made it all the more bizarre and all the more terrible.

“Mosko!  Brogan!  Let’s go, damn it!”  Both canines turned and ran toward us, passed us at full gallop, and stopped at the screen door.  Their tails didn’t wag.  They looked at us then at the door before repeating the process.  Then I heard it: they were whining, whimpering really, a disconcerting demonstration of fear.

We headed inside with the dogs.  I didn’t even consider drying them off before letting them in the door.

“We’re gonna stay for now,” George said as he ushered Margaret and Helene into Carr Beholden.

[Introduction | Part 5 | Part 7]