After the End of the World

It's obviously heavily loaded, because it takes a good two-thirds of the runway before the nose comes up. I'm no expert when it comes to aviation, but it seems to me that there's something wrong with this takeoff. With its blunt nose in the air, the big plane just trundles on and on, not lifting off, as the end of the runway approaches.

Finally, and with maybe a little help from my intense visualization of it flying, it sluggishly hauls itself into the air. I breathe a deep sigh of relief as it climbs away. I watch for a moment longer as it banks into a gentle turn to the right that will get it headed south.

Then the big plane loses an engine.

I'm not saying that one of them has just stopped working. I wouldn't necessarily notice that. And I don't even mean that the engine on the pilot's far right is suddenly spewing flame, which I would notice. No, I mean it's fallen off, dropping into Tampa's mostly abandoned downtown area.

I choke off a scream, knowing that it will do them no good, but somehow the big plane stays in the air, not noticeably climbing, but not appearing to fall either. It continues its long slow turn to the right, but I know the crew will now be attempting to land right back where they started, not in Australia.

The plane has now turned almost one hundred and eighty degrees. I'm waiting for the wings to level, because it needs to fly far enough to the southwest that when it makes its eventual turn back to the runway, it will have time to fly a gentle approach. But that doesn't happen.

Flames suddenly flare from the right wing, centered on the pylon from which the engine fell. The big jet continues to turn, but it's visibly losing altitude now. Worse, its path makes it look like it's going to come down here.

Maybe sensing my distress, little Gregory lets go with a sudden, keening wail. I gently press my palm to his back, mentally promising him that I will do everything I can to make sure we survive this. At this point, though, fleeing seems less than useless. I would as likely run right into the plane's path as not.

Then I notice that the wings are starting to level and the stubby landing gear is extending. I finally realize that with the plane on fire, the crew has decided that getting it on the ground quickly is more important than getting it onto an actual runway. It looks like they're going to attempt to put it down on the long concrete apron that runs perpendicular to the runway. And I'm standing against the fence that borders the near edge of it. If the plane lands short, it's landing on us.

I sprint along the fence, both hands gripping Gregory to keep him from bouncing too much, and desperately trying to get us out of the danger zone. I look up at the plane every few seconds to see if it's maintaining its path. So far, it looks like the crew has it dead on course for the middle of the apron. By my estimation, if it keeps coming down at the same rate, it should just clear the fence. Sirens are wailing on the taxiways now as fire equipment races to get into position. I'm starting to think that the crew may just pull this off.

I'm wrong.

With maybe just a half mile left until touchdown, the outer part of the right wing rips away, right at the pylon. The plane immediately goes into an uncontrollable dive to the right. Horrified, I realize that it's heading straight for the rows of duplexes that are our home.

I come to a stop as I watch the inconceivable unfold right in front of my eyes. It's as if the plane is possessed and knows exactly where it needs to go to add as many more innocent lives as possible to the horrendous toll it's about to take on its passengers and crew.

At the last second, I put my shock aside and my sense of preservation for both myself and my son reasserts itself. The place where the plane's coming down is still close. I sprint around the corner of the fence and head for the narrow canal that cuts a path across the rough grass. The water's less than a foot deep and the embankment is only three or four feet high, but it's better than nothing. I do a baseball-style, feet first slide into the water, my arm protectively across Gregory. I turn my back to the plane and curl up in a ball, holding him to my chest and making sure his head is above the water.

When it comes, the sound is almost unimaginable. I was in a fender-bender when I was a kid and still remember being shocked at how loud the sound of the crushing metal was. This is a thousand times worse. It overwhelms my senses, and all I can do is hang on and pray for the best.

The fireball rises up high above us. The radiant heat from it is intense. I automatically do a quick roll through the muddy water to reduce the chances of us getting burned. Then the shrapnel arrives. I hear more sounds of tortured metal as the chain link fence just twenty feet away is torn to tatters by jagged chunks of metal whizzing over our heads. We're just low enough behind the embankment to avoid being shredded. But then smaller pieces begin to fall from higher arcs, all around us. I roll to put my body between Gregory and the sky. Then the lights go out with a whoosh of air and a mighty slam.

I'm momentarily stunned, and it takes a long moment before I can make any sense of things. Gregory and I are suddenly in a low, dark cavern, and the sharp, staccato ringing of metallic impacts pounds down above us. I reach up and feel a flat, solid ceiling of metal just an inch or two from my shoulder. Part of the plane, obviously. Then I start registering the sounds. The fire equipment sirens are still wailing, and I can hear the shouts of men and women, either running to or from the site. In any case, it's time to get moving.

I slither on my side for about ten feet, being careful to keep Gregory's head above water at all times. When I reach daylight, I have to be careful not to cut us on jagged metal where this piece was evidently ripped from the plane.

I get to my feet, looking at what was our metal ceiling. It's the plane's horizontal stabilizer, torn away from the top of the rudder, but looking otherwise undamaged. It fell flat across the canal, almost dead centered on us. It should have killed us, but from the amount of debris embedded in the top side of it, its shelter may actually have saved our lives.

Then I'm walking, heading closer to the center of the crash site. The land here in Florida is so damn flat that you can't find good vantage points. I've taken Gregory from his sling and checked him over. He's come through the crash apparently uninjured. I hold him to my chest and he relaxes, falling right back to sleep. I don't know how he does it.

I don't have to walk far to see that the very worst has happened. There are burning buildings in a wide swath, but the path of the big plane's massive fuselage runs right through the row of houses on our street. And the deepest part of it is dead centered on our own home. There's nothing left but a great, smoking trench.

Despite all of the commotion around me, I sink down and sit on the curb, hold my child tight, and weep bitter tears.

The next morning, Gregory and I are in line to interview for a berth aboard the ARA Héctor Cámpora. I'm wearing a donated sundress, and all of my worldly possessions are in my backpack/diaper bag, including a few I picked up last night. A man had seen me sitting on the curb with a baby in my arms. I must have looked bad, because he'd gotten me packed into an ambulance with several actual victims.

My memory of the evening is foggy, but when we arrived at the hanger which was being used as a triage center, I told the medical folks that I really wasn't hurt. They were easily convinced, because they were overwhelmed. The number of actual injured was large, many of them burned.

There were lots of volunteers doing what they could, and one of them took an interest in helping me. She walked me to her home in the area where the officers were housed. Linda helped me get cleaned up, then asked for my story. As I told it, she said she'd heard about my rescue from the Montana bunker. I hadn't realized how widely that was known. She was close to my size and insisted on giving me several changes of clothing, saying they were ones she didn't wear anymore.

She had me sleep in their guestroom, then fed me a good breakfast. Her husband said he could talk to the wing commander about my staying with them for a while. I thanked them profusely for their generosity, but said that I had another plan.

So now my life comes down to getting onto this little ship. According to the information board propped up at the entrance to the warehouse (when the line finally brings us that far), there are several requirements. The biggest is that prospective male passengers (but evidently not the female ones) have at least five years of farming and/or ranching experience. They're also requiring that applicants be under thirty years old, have no children over five or under fourteen years old (?), require no infant formula, and be healthy and able to work. I figure I'm good.

The board says there are seventy-two staterooms on the ship, which I figure would normally work out to one hundred and forty-four passengers, assuming double occupancy. But it also says that extra berths have been added, greatly increasing the ship's capacity. The crew complement will be a fraction of what it would normally be, though, opening up spaces in the crew quarters. Passengers will be expected to perform most crew duties. In total, the ship will be taking almost four hundred refugees.

That seems like a lot for such a small ship. We can see it anchored just offshore. It's painted red and black, and is shaped like a cruise ship, but it's sized more like a really large yacht. I don't want to be here anymore, though, so I'm more than willing to put up with a little crowding.

Just outside the warehouse door there's a table where they're handing out standardized tests. There's one flavor for men, another for women. I show my ID and my name is written on the top of my answer sheet. We're told that there's no talking, and any suspicion of cheating will be grounds for immediate disqualification. When I walk in, the huge space is quiet as a tomb. Aside from the hundreds of applicants, the warehouse is empty. Like everyone else, I sit down on the concrete floor and go to work.

The test has some basic home economics questions, but for the most part it appears to be a straight up IQ test. What, they're only going to take smart refugees? I guess I can see some logic in that, but it sure doesn't seem very warm-hearted. Well, we'll see if I'm bright enough for them.

At the far end of the warehouse is a long table with a big sign that says "Grading." Manning it are three crewmen, and standing behind it is a man in a naval officer's uniform, his chest resplendent with medals.

When the crewmen are done grading each test, they hand the papers to the officer and he makes a notation on them before handing the papers back to the applicant and waving them through the door behind him. It appears to me that he has the final say in who goes and who stays, but the prospective passengers don't get to find out until they're out of sight of the other test takers. Probably smart.

From the size of the line and the relatively small number that the ship can take, the vast majority must be getting nays. My heart sinks a little.

When I'm finished, I approach the table. A crewman runs my answer sheet through some sort of automatic grading machine, then hands it to the officer. He motions for me to come around the table to him, all the while watching me closely. I have the definite impression that I'm being evaluated again, but not for my IQ this time.

Then a booming voice echoes in the large space.

"Lana!" All heads turn toward a side entrance to the warehouse. Caiden is standing in the doorway, Amelia's carrier in hand. "Oh my God, Lana! I thought you were dead!"

The crewman stationed at the door grabs his arm, but Caiden turns to him. "That's my wife!" he says, pulling free and running towards me.

I'm shocked but relieved to the core to see them alive. But "wife?" For the briefest of moments I'm confused, but then I catch on to the scam Caiden's running. I have to decide right now if I want to be his accomplice to this.

There's no time to think this through. I go with my gut and race to meet him. When we're close, he sets down Amelia's carrier and sweeps me into his arms. "Oh my God, Caiden," I cry. We're still careful about the infant bound to my chest. "I thought you were dead too."

He kisses me hard, right on the lips, and I somehow return his kiss as if I know what I'm doing. I cling to Caiden and sob with relief, realizing that this part isn't really an act.

"How's our girl?" I gasp. I'm not sure if I've actually thought to use the "our," but it comes naturally.

"She's just fine. And our son?"

Those words unaccountably thrill me. "He's good."

"Excuse me," comes an authoritative voice from our side. Caiden and I pull away from each other and turn. It's the medal-bedecked Argentinian officer. "I am Captain Fernando Ramirez. Please tell me what is going on here." His expression is a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. I can't blame him for the annoyance part. His operation had seemingly gone quite smoothly up until now.

Caiden comes to attention. "Sorry, sir," he says. I almost think he's going to throw a salute, but evidently the captain isn't in his chain of command. "I'm Air Force Staff Sergeant Caiden Michaels. Our home was destroyed in the plane crash last night and I was under the impression that my wife and son had been killed."

Ramirez raises his impressively thick eyebrows. "And where were you and your uh, daughter during this time?" Evidently a pink blanket indicates the feminine in Latin cultures too.

"Well, after dinner last night, our son was being fussy and Lana had been cooped up in the house all day, so she went for a walk with him. When she hadn't returned an hour and a half later, I decided to take our daughter and go looking for them."

"I was watching them load the plane," I explain, then turn to Caiden. "I'm sorry, babe," I say, pulling that term of endearment off the top of my head, "but time just got away from me."

"It's okay, love," he says. "It saved our lives."

I worry that we might be laying it on too thick. Then I decide that it only sounds that way to me because Caiden and I have never talked to each other like this before. I note that "love" is a new one for him. He called Kara "sweetheart."

Caiden turns back to the officer. "When I got about a block away, I turned and looked back at the house. Lana was walking up to the front door, so I naturally assumed she was going to be home for the night. I'd left a note saying that I was going out looking for her, but to go ahead and relax until I got home if I missed her. Since I knew she was safe, I decided to take a long loop around the neighborhood to get some exercise."

Ramirez fixes me with a hard stare. "So why were you not home when your house was destroyed?"

I gulp. "Just as I was reaching for the doorknob," I explain, actually telling the truth now, "I heard the plane's engines starting up. I'd never seen a C-5 takeoff before, so I walked back to the fence to watch. I never saw Caiden and Amelia, so I assumed they were still home when..." That mental picture is so strong that I can't say the words.

He nods, seemingly understanding the situation. "So why are you here if you thought your husband and child were killed. Shouldn't you have been planning for the funeral?"

"Captain, things have changed here. There are no resources for large funerals, and we have no family to come to one anyway. No one could give me an answer this morning when I asked if I would still be allowed to evacuate with the rest of the base personnel, so I decided to come here while I still could."

The captain turns to Caiden. "And why are you here, coming through a side entrance, if you thought your wife was dead?"

"I just found out an hour ago that she was alive and was supposedly coming here. I was desperate to find her before she went aboard the ship."

The captain nods and turns back to me. "So now you have your husband back." He looks at both of us. "Do you wish to come with us?"

The captain has asked a good question. If we go onboard his ship claiming to be married, then for all practical purposes, we will be married. Despite living in a house with him for three months, I hardly know Caiden. Am I ready to be his wife? Would I want to?

Then I suddenly realize that as hard as this act has been for me, it's got to be infinitely more difficult for him. His real wife died in a horrendous accident just last night. The grief I've experienced since then can't be anything compared to his.

Still, if he's come here claiming to be my husband, it can only be because he wants all of us to be on the ship together. If he'd just wanted us to stay, he wouldn't have had to make that claim.

I decide to go with the gut decision that got me to run to him. After what he's been through, if he's willing to throw caution to the wind to get us onto this ship, I can do no less. I'm going to do whatever it takes to make that happen.

I look to my "husband," knowing that in Latin cultures, the man still takes the leading role. I want to be on the good side of the captain. Caiden must be thinking along the same lines because he doesn't even ask for my approval. "Of course we do," he says. "We discussed it last night. We've been Montana ranchers for most of our lives and we'd like the chance to raise our twins on a ranch as well."

Twins. This whole thing has been going so fast that I hadn't yet considered that getting on the ship will legally make Gregory and Amelia siblings. And there are probably other implications to this that we're not even thinking about yet.

Ramirez nods at Caiden's response, but then gives him a sharp look. "Are you planning to leave without the permission of your superior officers?"

Caiden doesn't even blink. "Sir, my enlistment ended a few months after the war, but I stayed on a day-to-day basis to help out. I'm free to leave anytime, but even so I did notify them of my intentions first."

The captain nods, then looks at my graded test. His bushy eyebrows go up and he looks at me appreciatively. "You have earned a rare perfect score. Is your husband as bright as you are?"

"Brighter," I say with no hesitation, but the captain is looking at my left hand.

"Your husband is wearing a wedding ring," he says, "but you are not. Why is this?"

Never have I had to come up with a lie so quickly. "I injured my hand on a ride at Universal Studios while we were on our honeymoon. My finger was swollen, and it made wearing my rings painful. I left them in the safe in the hotel room the next day when we went to the park, but then the attack happened. Without power, we weren't able to open the safe before we evacuated."

Ramirez looks at Caiden. "And you have not gotten her another one in all this time?" Crap, I should have come up with a better lie.

The test taking has seemingly come to a halt and every eye is now on us. Our voices are probably carrying to the far corners of the warehouse.

"I've been saving ration coupons to get Lana a much nicer ring than the one I proposed with," Caiden explains, seemingly chagrinned. "I was going to give it to her on our first anniversary, which is today, but..."