Free Going Gray by Brian Spangler Page A

moved furiously, screaming words she couldn’t hear. The hollow sound grew and shook them in a very different way. Her body vibrated; assaulted by the sound. A shockwave? What she thought was an earthquake must have been part of an explosion. A huge explosion.
    “Earthquake?” She managed to hear Peter asked. His words were muffled and hard to make out. She shook her head. “What then?”
    “I think there was an explosion,” she answered, and knew she was screaming so that he could hear her. He shook his head, giving up on hearing anything. With her hands, she motioned an explosion, and then mouthed the word. Peter nodded. He was holding her again. She could feel him shaking, the adrenaline making his muscles twitch and quiver uncontrollably. Emily felt strangely calm. She understood then; Peter hadn’t experienced the outside. He didn’t hear his neighbors die, or have his house collapse around him, or crash in a car wreck that killed his parents. But what was outside was coming inside now. Whatever exploded, she feared may have ripped its way into the mall where they were supposed to be safe.
    “We can move now,” she offered, trying to stand up in the wreckage of what was the store. She braced herself on Peter’s shoulders, pushing until she was upright. Peter held her hand as they stood. He brushed the remains of dust and pieces of ceiling from his shirt and hair. “How’s your head?” The bleeding from the gash had slowed, leaving red trails between his eyes and traveling down to his chin. Emily gently pressed paper napkins atop the cut.
    “Thanks. What the—” he started to say, but his voice faded as he circled around the store.
    “Explosion,” she offered. Their voices remained thin like talking into a tin-can. Emily tried blowing out air to pop her ears. “Must’ve been a real close one. Maybe a gas station?” Peter motioned his head up and down, agreeing while she spoke, but she wasn’t sure he heard much of what she’d said.
    “Well, at least we didn’t lose too much in here.” Peter made his way around the debris, taking large steps, propping up some of what fell. “Lost a few of your tea drinks though.” When he motioned to the display refrigerator, she could see he was still shaking and stepped closer to him, taking his hand into hers.
    “Come on,” she said, leading him from the store. “We should go see if anyone needs help.”
    “Yeah,” he answered. His voice sullen, his gaze unfocused. “Probably a good idea.”

VIII
     
    DEATH PLUS ONE
     

    The mall had suffered some, but fared better than the store. Trashcans had toppled over, spewing their insides onto the floor. Storefront windows had cracked or shattered, leaving behind sharp fingers or a pile of blue and white pebbles. The roofline of the smoothie stand—a favorite that she’d often frequented—had broken away from its beam, demolishing a set of fruit mixers. Her ears popped, and she forced a yawn as though she were on an airplane. Peter circled around her, dragging his feet while he studied the damages. He pressed a finger in his ear, shaking his hand, trying to clear his hearing.
    Debris fell around them. She pushed a palm out, facing up, collecting some of the pieces. The bigger pieces ticked against her hand, bouncing. But the finer debris—filled with shards of white and yellow—fell like a light snow, drifting and following her hand when she waved it in front of her. These weren’t flakes of ice that had been miraculously shaped into miniature sculptures. The debris was paper and insulation and other building materials like she’d seen before in her garage when it collapsed.
    “Here,” she said, offering a napkin. Peter motioned to the bloodied one still in his hand, but she shook her head. “Not for your head. Put this over your mouth.” He understood, following her instructions, copying her motions.
    “Everyone okay over there?” a voice yelled out from the food court. A small figure of a man