The Last Christmas Read online

  “You okay?” Tim asked.

  I nodded, holding Brea. She cried in my arms.

  Then I saw the look of horror on Tim’s face.

  “Tim?”

  “Oh God, we have to get out.”

  I screamed his name as he reached for his door and got out. What was he doing?

  He crossed over the front of our car, climbing quickly over the fallen tree and reached for my door.

  Behind him, I saw what he did. What made him panic.

  A huge rushing wall of water.

  He tried to open my door. I tried.

  It was stuck, jammed from the collision with the tree.

  “Push!” he yelled.

  “I am.” I shoved and shoved. “It won’t open.”

  The water neared.

  “Try harder!”

  I used my shoulder, but nothing. “Tim.” I looked out the window at him.

  I was certain at that moment, the river was going to wash away our car or rush into the car. I clutched Brea with everything I had. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry.”

  Tim pounded on the window.

  I was also certain, by the look in his eyes, that he was positive we were dying. Tim thought he’d witness the death of his family.

  His hands were flush against the window, he peered briefly over his shoulder as the water rushed our way, then looked at us … making eye contact one last time.

  The water smacked with a vengeance against the car and Tim slammed once into the window. His hands reaching to grab something.

  Brea screamed, “Daddy!” in my ear, and I grabbed her tighter, pressing her face against my shoulder so she wouldn’t see. Another rush of water and Tim was gone.

  I cried, too, and then the car lifted.

  My daughter, my baby, I held on so very tight to her. With everything I had, I wouldn’t let go.

  For the sake of both of us, I had to calm down, tried to keep my wits.

  Clutching Brea, I closed my eyes, praying out loud, reciting the words as quickly as I could get them out, over and over.

  Hail Mary full of Grace … The Lord is with thee …

  Then we rolled.

  Blessed are thou among woman and blessed is the fruit of the womb. Jesus …

  We slammed into something.

  Holy Mary Mother of God, prayer for us sinners …

  Water rushed over the car.

  Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

  We were going to die.

  Hail Mary …

  I repeated it until I couldn’t repeat it anymore. Brea cried in my ear and I had to comfort her. I waited for the water to break into the car. I debated on whether to undo our buckle, climb out and make a swim for it in the icy waters and then I realized, there was no way I was going to be able to hold my child against that current.

  I didn’t want to let go and her float off alone, watch her go under.

  No.

  No if we were going to leave this earth, we would do so together.

  I heard drowning was a peaceful way to die.

  “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

  “I’m scared,” she whimpered.

  “Don’t be. I’m not. We’re together.”

  I lifted her head to look at her beautiful face. And that’s when I noticed, Where was the water?

  “Mommy?”

  “We’re not under. We’re not under.” I smiled.

  “What about Daddy? Is he okay?”

  My eyes instinctively closed. Tim. Poor Tim. I answered her as best and as honestly as I could. “I don’t know.”

  I held her for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to do, when I heard a bang against the car. I thought something else hit us until the back door flung open.

  A young man, probably in his early twenties, wearing a baseball cap and a poor excuse for a winter jacket, stood in the door way. “You guys okay?”

  I couldn’t respond. I cried and nodded, repeatedly saying, thank you.

  “I was on the other side, I saw. Here, let me help,” he said. He was so young, not very tall either. He extended his hand. “Are you stuck?”

  “No.” I undid the belt. The car was slightly slanted, and I held Brea so that she didn’t slide toward the driver’s side.

  He reached in and took hold of Brea’s arm. “I got her.”

  I couldn’t really see, until I released my daughter and was able to turn in the seat. He had her on his hip and he reached for me. “I’m good. Thank you.” I carefully climbed over the seat into the back. The two large duffle bags were there.

  “Leave them,” he said. “We don’t know if water will come again.”

  “These have supplies, we’ll need. Trust me.”

  He nodded and I grabbed the bags. They were awkward and I was weighted down. My balance was off, and the young man helped me from the car.

  When I stepped out, I lost my breath.

  Everything, including the bridge, was washed away. Gone. I looked around. Cars floated down the river, along with pieces of homes and buildings.

  Our car was the only car that remained and simply because it got caught up on the tree that hit us.

  The destruction was horrendous, and our loss hadn’t even fully registered. It would, I knew it, once I was safe and warm.

  His name was Allen and he walked us to his pickup truck that was a few hundred yards down the road. There were a few other cars there and people watched us. People that made it safely across the bridge and just missed the raging, flash-flood waters.

  His truck was normal size but perched on huge wheels. One of those off-road jobs that was overdone.

  I hated them before, found them annoying, and claimed the trucks were over compensation for the owners. But now, I was too grateful for that truck; it was safe, I was certain.

  Allen placed our bags in the truck and we climbed inside.

  “Are you sure you two are all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, shaken. Sad.” I kept Brea on my lap and belted us in.

  “I’ll tell ya, I stopped when it started and saw it all,” he said. “I couldn’t believe it. Really. That tree was holding on to you for dear life. Well, it seemed it was. The water was rushing, and it just wouldn’t let you go. I kept watching and thinking, there’s something special in that car. There has to be, if something that tree is holding on to it for dear life.”

  I didn’t know this boy other than he was our rescuer and hero at that moment. I reached over and grabbed his hand. “My daughter is that something special.”

  “You both are.” He smiled compassionately. “Were you two traveling alone?”

  I shook my head and whispered, “My husband was with us.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I am.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you headed somewhere in particular?”

  I shook my head. “No. Just south.”

  “You’re in luck,” he started the truck. “So am I.”

  We pulled forward and I watched out the rear view mirror.

  I kept thinking, was I wrong for leaving? Should I have stayed behind and waited?

  My heart answered no. I had to keep going. Tim would want me to. If by some chance he was alive, he’d find us. I had to concentrate on Brea. She was what mattered. Her safety.

  <><><><>

  What a remarkable and brave young man Allen was. I learned a lot about him in the truck. His father passed away years before and his mother, fearful of the end, had committed suicide just one day earlier.

  There weren’t funerals, nothing anymore. People just kept moving.

  Allen kept moving.

  He grieved, yes. It was hard for him, but he told me he had to just go forward.

  I was overwrought with an abundance of sadness. Tim was gone. Washed away. I wondered if it were even worth going on without him. Who would take the reins, help me to survive? I had two bags that Tim packed. He thought of our survival, so I had to continue that path.

  We made pretty good distance
and Allen had extra gas in the back of the truck. However, we were forced to stop outside of Morgantown, West Virginia. End of the line.

  No civilian traffic was permitted on the road during evacuation and extraction procedures.

  We were issued a ‘spot’ in a camp, given bare-minimum MRE rations. Allen suggested we eat only what we needed and save the rest, adding it to our survival bags.

  I thought it was a good idea.

  The weather grew worse and each day was colder. Our shelter was a tent and it wasn’t going to cut it much longer.

  We were there three weeks when we were told the camp was to be evacuated and transport was coming.

  I could see why. The snow was getting deep; it was harder and harder to stay warm. Our survival was so forefront on our minds, I felt guilty for not diving into a mourning period for Tim.

  Allen kept telling me, I’d have time for that.

  A truck came and took people, and then another, and another.

  “You’ll be moved soon,” they said, but the snow kept coming.

  “If we don’t get farther south,” Allen told me, “We’ll die here. Canvas tents are no shelter from the cold.”

  I agreed.

  After another foot of snow, and two days of waiting, we left on our own.

  The mountainous roads of West Virginia, snow covered and slick, would have been a problem for a lot of people. But Allen’s truck plowed right through.

  We actually passed a military truck on the side of the road.

  When we left the camp, we offered to take a few people with us, they declined, stating they’d wait, it was safer.

  Seeing that stranded military vehicle told me differently.

  It was hard to determine which way we were headed, we relied on faded tire tracks from other vehicles, but they stopped when we passed the stranded one.

  Moving slow and steady, one hour later, Allen slowed down even more.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He pointed out the window.

  It looked like a small polar bear moving haphazardly. Left to right, tromping in the snow.

  Allen sounded his horn and the ‘polar bear’ turned.

  It was a person. As if he didn’t think we’d stop, he waved his hands, flagging us down.

  “Are you really stopping?” I asked.

  “Of course, I am. He’ll die out here.”

  Humbled. I took a deep breath and clutched my child protectively. Even more so when I saw the weapon over his shoulder.

  The illusion of being a polar bear was brought on by the fact that he was covered head to toe in the blowing snow. He wore a hood, carried a large back pack along with his weapon and dark goggles.

  He sloppily approached the truck. When he reached the windows, I saw his lips were blue and face nearly frozen over. He raised his goggles.

  Allen wound down the window. “Get in.”

  The man nodded a thank you and when Allen opened his door, the stranger opened the small rear one and climbed inside.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

  “Mommy, who is that man?” Brea asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sergeant John Cullen, ma’am.” He removed his weapon, probably one of those ‘M’ weapons or whatever they called them. He placed it to the side, shuffled off his backpack, and started removing his top layer of clothing.

  I asked, “Were you with that truck we saw a ways back?”

  “I was, yes.”

  Allen asked, “Why did you leave?”

  “Because they stopped. They weren’t going any farther and were turning back.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Allen said. “Did you think you could walk to a safe zone?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “To a pick up zone.”

  That piqued my attention. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s another storm coming. A big one. Two days. Everything above the southern quarter of the U.S. is gonna be buried. I’m not talking two or three feet, I’m talking twenty, thirty feet of snow. And as soon as it breaks, rescue choppers are coming to certain areas.”

  “So the they just gave up?” I asked. “All those people?”

  “Nothing can be done. All those people can’t be lifted. But a few can.” He looked at me, then his eyes shifted to Brea.

  “Where?” Allen questioned.

  “D.C.”

  “Dude,” Allen laughed. “That’s the wrong way. That’s east of here and a bit north. Also hundreds of miles away. Did you think you’d make it in two days?”

  “I was hoping I’d get a ride.”

  “No.” Allen shook his head. “We’re headed south. We have to.”

  “You won’t make it. That, I promise. At this pace, you’ll have to stop. The storm will hit and you won’t make it.” He spoke with so much certainty. “Going to D.C. is the best option. The choppers will come when the storm ends.”

  Allen kept shaking his head.

  “How do you know they’re going to D.C.?” I asked.

  “Because too many important people left behind. They’ll evacuate them after the storm. They were told to dig in, so to speak.”

  “That doesn’t sound right,” Allen said. “Why would such important people be left behind. Why not move them right away to make decisions.”

  John replied, “Because they felt infallible, brave, I don’t know why. But I have the intel.” He unzipped his bag and pulled out papers. “Locations. Several. They were told where to go, to get high and seal in.”

  That puzzled me. “Seal in?”

  “Locations high enough to be a roof pick up. Fireplaces to burn anything and everything,” he answered. “I promise you, if you go south, you will not make it. If we go to Washington, we have a chance.”

  Allen turned his head and looked at me. “It’s your call.”

  Was this soldier right, wrong? Misled? I didn’t know. The one thing that did make sense to me was the storm. I believed that.

  I also believed getting high and above the ground was the answer.

  I glanced down to Brea in my arms and made the call. “Go to D.C..”

  <><><><>

  If for any reason, Soldier John was delusional from the cold, or lying, he had it figured out in his mind. My gut didn’t need to tell me we were following a good lead, my eyes told me that.

  Under normal circumstances what would be a three hour trip, took us ten, and we only stopped once to add gas to the tank.

  The snow was thick in Washington, D.C., and everything was dark. No electricity. The stars and moon were blocked by the thick snow clouds.

  Black, except for the orange dots that seemed to float in midair.

  They were lights from survivors.

  The buildings were high and obviously had places for helicopters to land.

  John indicated what he thought was the best building.

  A twelve-story, old apartment high-rise.

  “Why this one?” Allen asked.

  “The Vice President is here.”

  Allen laughed. “What? We gonna just go storm into the Vice President’s suite?”

  John scoffed, “No. we’re gonna make our own holding place up there. When the chopper comes for him, we’ll get on board.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Allen said sarcastically. “They’ll just say, come on board. I’m sure his entourage will take up most of the room.”

  “What I heard on the radio was that there was only three of them,” John replied. “We have our own supplies. Our own radio. Those penthouses all have fireplaces. We lock in after we raid every apartment for stuff to burn.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  “Rescue is slated for ten days. Let’s plan to ration for thirty.”

  That was the plan.

  Most people had left Washington, D.C.. If they lived in the particular high-rise we chose, then for certain they made their way to safety.

  The plan wasn’t to bother or storm into the Vice President’s ‘pentho
use’ bunker; it was to make our own.

  What John didn’t know was the layout of the building or how many ‘penthouse apartments’ there were. We traveled up twelve flights of stairs, carrying our backpacks and that tank of gas.

  John surveyed first while we waited in the stairwell.

  It was pitch-black and ice cold. We were sheltered, but I couldn’t imagine how anyone would live long exposed to the elements. It was going to get worse, too.

  He returned saying he knew which penthouse the Vice President resided in and chose one for us.

  John had to break down the door with Allen, and we slipped inside the penthouse. It was huge, hollow, and cold.

  I suppose it was going to be beautiful when the sun rose, or at least in the morning.

  “I’ll get this fireplace going,” John said. “Then you and Brea hang tight here, while me and Allen go get all we can from apartments. We’ll hit every one and get what we can.”

  “Can we keep the fire going?” Allen asked.

  “We have to. These temperatures are going to drop to arctic levels. We’ll freeze in ten minutes after being exposed, maybe less.”

  It didn’t take long. I guess noise traveled louder in the quiet of the apocalypse.

  Before John and Allen could get the fireplace started, our door burst open and another soldier stormed our room.

  He held his weapon on us and our soldier, John, faced off with him.

  “Stand down,” ordered the other soldier.

  “Back off,” John said. “We aren’t hurting anyone.”

  Then I saw him. He stood in the door way. The Vice President.

  John saw him too.

  “What are you people doing?” the Vice President asked.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” John said. “Surviving. We mean no harm and we won’t bother you. I have a woman and child here. We are going to fire this thing up, stay warm, and stay alive during this storm. We have our own supplies. I appreciate if you told your Captain, here, to lower his weapon.”

  The Vice President didn’t give the order. He said, “You plan on staying in this apartment?”

  “Yes, sir,” John answered. “Until the rescue chopper arrives. We’re not in your way.”

  “This is nonsense,” the Vice President said.

  At that point I was irritated. Why did we have a gun pointed at us? The whole situation was bad enough for my child, but now she had to witness this. It took everything I had not to blurt the one bad response of, “This is why I didn’t vote for you.”