The Zero Hour Read online

Yeah…looking at these arrows, I’m thinking, not so much today.

  I drop my book bag on the floor, crack open all the boxes, start screwing the field points into the top of each shaft. Holding the finished arrows, marveling at the weight and balance of each, it would be downright ungrateful of me to not go shooting today, right?

  I have to. It’s practically an obligation.

  So this is my plan, this is what I’m thinking: I get three more hours of (much needed) sleep, hit the archery range in the early afternoon, then on the way back home I’ll grab Mexican food, kick off my shoes and read in front of the window until it’s time for bed.

  Sounds better than school, right?! I think so.

  Once I’m done assembling all twelve arrows, I grab my heavy-duty quiver from the closet where there are twenty-four arrows already loaded. I transfer the twelve worst looking arrows into my backup quiver and replace them with the brand new set.

  At this point I can’t stop yawning, so the clothes come off, the ponytail comes loose and I crawl back into bed, dragging the blankets all the way to my chin. Pushing past the coffee and my earlier plans, I close my eyes and then it’s sleep, sweet sleep.

  Eleven a.m. I’m waking back up, my body is fully rested and I’m ready for the range. More coffee, some yogurt and a handful of almonds.

  Fuel.

  A few minutes later I’ve got both quivers and my fifty-five pound compound bow stuffed in the back seat of what is now my 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass. We’re talking about flawless copper body, matte-black top, polished black interior that smells like old leather with a hint of gasoline and grease. If you want to know anything about this brute of mine, you need to think four barrel carburetor, four speed transmission and two exhaust pipes, split.

  This is the 4-4-2.

  The clutch is heavy, the gears a bit cranky, the engine boisterous at a rumble. I give it some gas to warm it up and the too-rich smell of the exhaust somehow feels better than that second cup of coffee. First gear has me going, second gear is straight sexy and by third gear my day is looking measurably better. I might’ve even kicked the back end out turning a corner or two, but that’s only because I can.

  My dad loved this car until he bought his Challenger. Now this is my car and even though it’s not feminine to say the least, I’m not exactly the poster child for femininity. Maybe it’s because I’m tall, my tits are small, and I have a body (and a disposition) that leans more toward athletics than fashion. My dad never questioned me on the car or my look. He knew both fit me just right, and they do.

  He calls the Cutlass “Shooter’s new ride,” and somehow this warms me every time. And right now, Shooter’s new ride is headed to the park.

  I’ve been coming to the Golden Gate Park Archery Field since I was a kid. A few years back, my grandfather was alive. Archery was our thing. When he passed from colon cancer, I continued to come here in his honor. My grandfather was a man of few words, but when he spoke, people tended to listen. Out on the range when I was maybe twelve or thirteen, he said to me, “If you can shoot arrows straight and keep you’re a-hole clean, you should be able to lead a pretty good life.”

  Sound advice from a man who thrived in one and died from the other.

  The thing about my grandpa was, even though he knew what he had—that he was dying—he never once complained. He just did what he could while he could and didn’t soak anyone’s shoulder with tears of self-pity or remorse for a life slowly being taken from him. I admire him for that. It makes me want to be a tougher, more steadfast girl.

  4

  The range isn’t packed at all. In fact, it’s empty. First it’s just me behind the bow, then it’s me and an older couple who are clearly novices. After that it’s some skinny kid with unkempt hair, an iPod, his compound bow and a quiver of too many arrows that look like they were stuffed in haphazardly and all at once by a one-handed toddler.

  I look at him and I’m thinking, dude, why aren’t you in school? He’s looking at me, giving me the once over then not giving me the time of day.

  I place a few arrows in the center ring, put two on the bullseye, then look over at him like, what gives? He’s just sitting there with his iPod listening to his music.

  And not shooting.

  “Hey,” I finally say, unable to take him any longer. “Hey!”

  The older couple look over, but they see me looking at this miscreant and go back to minding their own business. He looks up and I make a motion for him to pull out his earbuds. He does.

  “What’s your problem?” I ask.

  “How do you mean?” he says, almost like he’s stoned.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”

  “I graduated already.”

  “You’re at an archery range and you’re listening to music, not even looking at your gear, much less using it.”

  “So?”

  “So pick up your bow and arrows and shoot something. Or go home. Just don’t sit here acting like you’d rather be somewhere else.”

  “Mind your own business,” he says, putting his earbuds back in.

  “You can’t shoot can you?”

  He takes one ear bud out and says, “I shoot here so I can play my PlayStation at home. It’s my mom’s thing. Real time for game time.”

  “So you just come out here and sit on your butt listening to Nickelback or whatever?”

  “Something like that,” he says, putting the earbud back in.

  I refuse to stop staring at him. Finally he looks over. Then, blowing out a tantrum laced breath, he stands up and fires off twelve arrows in quick succession. One of the dozen arrows actually finds the edge of the paper target, but all the others miss the hay bale completely.

  He then checks his watch like he could care less and looks at me.

  “Fifteen more minutes,” he says, po-faced and snide. He then sits back down, pulls out his cell phone and starts texting someone.

  “Unbelievable.”

  I’ve been through both quivers twice and I’m gathering my arrows for a third round when I hear a series of muted concussion bursts coming from the city behind me. Me and the older couple turn and look toward downtown. We don’t see anything. The noise persists though, almost like a fireworks display, but from really far away.

  Now the kid’s taking out his earbuds, seeing us watching the sky, and he’s standing up, turning around. A dozen columns of smoke climb into the deep blue sky, working their way into the higher atmosphere.

  Instead of collecting his arrows, the iPod slacker simply picks up his bow and leaves.

  “Your arrows!” I yell at him. He just flips me off.

  Wow, rude.

  The older couple waste no time gathering up their arrows before hurrying out of there and leaving me alone. The far away sounds of things exploding concerns me. I collect my arrows, then check out the slacker’s abandoned arrows and I have to say, they’re not half bad. Good tips, firm fletchings, straight shaft…nothing more than a bit of dirt and grass to clean up.

  Lucky me, I’ve now got a dozen more arrows.

  After piling my gear into the Cutlass, I crank the motor and work the gas pedal until the engine catches with a sputter and a growl. As I’m sitting there with the car rumbling and my mind stuck on myriad possibilities for the explosions, I’m starting to rethink the whole idea of Mexican food. At this point it might be prudent to head home and check out the local news stations, see who knows what about the smoke downtown.

  * * *

  Rolling down 47th, I make my way through the Golden Gate Park down to John F. Kennedy Drive, straight through to Bernice Rodgers Way which quickly becomes Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. Making a right on Sunset, I sail through the Lincoln Way underpass and head into the dismal urban landscape.

  Something metallic zips overhead. It’s moving so fast I almost miss it. But I don’t.

  “What the hell?” I mutter, leaning forward and straining to see into the sky. As quickly as the thing flew by, it’s gone.
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br />   “Okay…”

  Taking a hard left down Irving, I cruise down what I consider to be the most depressing road in history. I’ve just come from Golden Gate Park, this gorgeous, lush, green park; Irving is all concrete, sagging telephone lines and compact two story homes of every color and sort. If I saw someone laying dead in the gutter, honestly, I wouldn’t be shocked.

  A quick drive down Dirt Alley and I’m at our detached garage. I pull in, shut the door, then traipse across to the backyard and enter into my house through the back door.

  Inside it feels extra empty.

  I should be coming home with a hot meal. I should be curled on the couch reading a book or watching TV or listening to music. Instead I’m trying not to freak out because every time I look outside, the smoke rising up over the city is starting to resemble some huge, ominous cloud in the making.

  Could there be an attack? Exploded gas lines? An alien invasion? At this point, I really wish my dad were here.

  You’re far enough from the smoke, Indigo, I tell myself. So stop acting like such a child.

  I try finding the local news stations on TV, but the TV is screeching with an emergency broadcast signal. I punch the OFF button, check the internet. It never gets me to my home page; rather it just freezes up, almost like there’s a bad connection. I turn on my phone and try the internet there. Same story. Trying not to panic, I make a call to my house and the landline rings.

  Oh, thank God.

  For whatever reason, because at least this one service works, I wonder if this will all pass over shortly. It’s just exploding gas lines, I tell myself. A problem with the cell towers.

  I turn the TV back on and flip through the channels until the emergency broadcast noise finally stops. Two television stations are still working. Both cable news networks. I watch for like an hour, but no one is saying anything. It’s just recycled stories from last week: a small Minnesota town is flooding while the state of Virginia is rocked by political scandal, and then the governor of California is announcing that waking up on the left side of the bed is now illegal and we’ll be taxed for waking up on the right side, blah, blah, blah…

  Sometime between this blonde lady with impossible eyes changing shows with a Ken doll looking guy with Lego hair, I fall asleep. When I wake up, I check the clock and find it’s just after five. Putting my hair back in a ponytail, straightening my clothes, I mosey out front, pop a squat on the front stoop with the house phone in one hand and my cell phone in the other. I’m starting to worry that I haven’t heard from my dad.

  All around me the streets are empty. And entirely too quiet. It’s unsettling. Further off, in the distance, however, the sound of things exploding persists. How much longer is this going to last? What is really going on down there?!

  Heading out back, I lean the ladder against the detached garage giving me access to the roof. The thing about my house and detached garage is, there’s nothing pretty or architecturally appealing about either. It’s purely function over form. Hence, the flat roof. Standing on the garage with a pair of my dad’s binoculars, I scan the downtown sky.

  My breath catches.

  I pull back the field glasses, take a second to compose myself, then bring the binoculars back to my eyes. Hovering over the downtown skies is a smattering of black dots. They’re moving around in the smoky haze. Rising up into it, then dipping back down.

  Oh my God, I’m thinking, alien invasion.

  No, that can’t be right.

  I tilt my head and search the skies above. No mothership there. Back to the city skyline. This is where the explosions are coming from. It’s hard to imagine this has been going on for hours now. It’s even harder to believe the smoke and the explosions aren’t from gas mains. Earlier, if I was deeply invested in any scenario, it was that one.

  I’m starting to freak out when the phone rings making me jump.

  I pick up. “Dad?”

  “Sweetheart,” he says, a bit frantic. “Are you okay?”

  “I am.”

  “Good, good. Something’s happening here, Indy, and it’s not looking too good.”

  “Fires?” I ask.

  I so badly want to tell him what’s going on here, but he sounds anxious, nearly out of breath. Suddenly I’m worried about him. Worried that he’s half the state away and poop is hitting the proverbial fan.

  “I…I think…I think we’re being bombed. The city I mean. San Diego is under attack but we’re not sure by whom or what. Have you seen it on the news? Are they saying anything about San Diego? Because none of us know what’s going on here.”

  There’s all kinds of commotion in the background and it’s making it hard to hear him. I stick a finger in one ear, press the phone harder against the other, then tuck my head away from my own downtown noise.

  “It’s happening here, too, Dad.”

  “What?! Did you say it’s happening there, too?”

  “Yeah, it is I think.”

  “Oh, God. Oh, God baby. You need to listen to me, okay? You need to listen good.”

  “Daddy?” I ask, tears rushing to my eyes, my blood pumping so fast my face feels all hot and slick. I’m suddenly looking up and around, but the world is blurry behind these wet eyes of mine.

  “Baby, I love you. Get to your mom’s house a.s.a.p., and stay inside. Take your bow and arrows with you, too. And the gun. I’m not sure if I’ll make it home when I said, or at all the way things are looking here. Whatever you do, you need to protect yourself at all costs, okay?”

  “I will, Dad. I love you—”

  The line suddenly goes flat.

  “Dad? Daddy?”

  Nothing.

  “Daddy?”

  I reluctantly hang up the phone and I can’t stop crying. By now it’s getting dark and I’m noticing for the first time that almost no one is coming home. There are no cars, no kids outside, no mailman or really anyone. Overhead, there are no airplanes, nothing of consequence, unless you count the little black dots hovering around the downtown skies.

  A pair of low flying drones zip by, causing me to look left. They are traveling at a brisk pace, which concerns me. Are they part of the problem? Or is the military trying to get a smaller set of eyes into…whatever it is going on downtown? All I know is right now I’m happy to be here and not down there.

  Dad said to get to Mom’s, so I’m going to get the gun, my bow and arrows and I’m going to do what he said.

  As I’m packing up the car, I’m trying to put this whole thing together. Truth be told, my mind is scrambled eggs right now. If the city has been getting bombed, like San Diego has been getting bombed, then reason would have it traffic must be beyond congested and people must be dying.

  A rolling sickness drags an anchor through my insides, causing within me a deep, debilitating pain. An attack on the city would explain why no one’s coming home. They’re either dead or in the mother of all traffic jams. All I can do is hope that whatever it is doing all this will stop before it reaches this edge of town.

  As I’m getting ready to head out, the sun has fallen behind the city and darkness is quickly settling in. I step outside, listen: it’s stopped. The bombing has stopped.

  Maybe it’s over. Is it finally over?

  Instead of going to Mom’s, I head back inside, pick up the landline and call her cell. It goes straight to voicemail. I call her home phone and it just rings and rings. Finally I do the one thing I never wanted to do and that’s call Tad, her stupid bf.

  He answers quickly. “Margot, are you okay?”

  “It’s me, Tad,” I say with a sigh. “It’s Indigo.”

  Pause…then: “Oh, I need to keep this line clear in case your mother tries to call.”

  “Yes, Tad. I’m okay, thanks for asking.”

  “I don’t have time for you to be a teenager right now, Indigo.”

  “Do you have time for this?” I ask, my voice high and breathless, smarting with hostility. Before he can say a word, I hang up on him.

&nb
sp; What a jerk!

  Even worse than being brushed off, I’m worried, and now more frustrated than ever. Where the hell is my mom? In between dialing and re-dialing my dad, I’m dialing and re-dialing my mom. It’s the same result—a fast busy signal. I try again every ten minutes until I get a message telling me the entire system is down.

  Then at long last, it dawns on me: I’m truly on my own.

  I haul my weapons back in the house, then try to find anything on TV or the internet, but both of those services are down, too. I heat a cup of noodles and grab a bag of Fritos thinking this is as healthy as it’s going to get with me all by myself and going to pieces.

  Sitting on the couch under a blanket in the crushing, crushing quiet, I feel the sinking temperatures forcing the house to settle. If I hadn’t heard these creaks and pops before, I’d swear the place was haunted. I can actually feel the weight of the air cooling and I don’t like it, but what am I going to do?

  Fortunately I have electricity, running water and heat, but for how long?

  5

  Mom’s dead. I’m sure of it. Whatever spent all of yesterday unleashing hell upon the city started up again with the rising sun. Now I’m really panicking. I try her on the cell phone and the lines are still down. Same with the landline. I try dad. Same. The internet is kaput, but there are still two channels being broadcast and one of those is not my favorite channel ever.

  Choosing one station over the other, I cut in on a less-than-polished looking talking head who seems squirmy enough to maybe be telling the truth, which looks like some kind of foreign concept that’s now completely freaking him out.

  Horrifying video is playing on the TV: Chicago is being bombed and people are screaming, running, being wasted in the streets; New York is under attack, too—cabs are being eviscerated and the Empire State Building is being peppered with missiles from fleets of mammoth drones; California’s State Capital building is on fire, people are running, burning and being riddled with bullets.

  Cut back to the talking head. His face is losing color by the minute. Even his eyes are overly jumpy, like his brain is winding up for the big, catastrophic meltdown.