Welcome to the Rapture!

The threats of nuclear terror frighten everybody--except for River Holmes!

5:47 A.M. Threats from a foreign leader appear along the bottom of the television screen. The news anchor fades from the screen as a video of the foreign leader, who angrily proclaims that the U.S. doesn’t listen and “at 6:00 P.M. the rockets will be launched” or something, plays. I’m not sure how well the two doofuses on the radio show translated it considering they’re both blue-collared men from western Pennsylvania. Everyone, and by everyone I mean about ten or fifteen percent of the population, watches or at least listens to the video clip; there is nearly 2,000,000 hits on YouTube in just a few hours. I don’t know media all that well but I bet that beat Adele’s Hello in terms of views per hour.

            I wake up to two men on the radio howling, as I do every morning since I’ve been unemployed, about the threats. Ruben and Scotty, the two very courteous and outspoken radio hosts, laugh as they replayed the audio of the clip.

            “What a jackass,” Ruben says, I imagine the trucker hat and oil splots on his jeans which are probably boot-cut, by the way. Scotty laughs along, his voice is higher-pitched and, frankly, listening to a weed whacker up close would be more pleasing.

            “There’s no way those missiles are gonna git here.” Why do I wake up to two pure American-bred jockeys who complain about the gun regulations and a purely speculative revival of the AIDS breakout? It makes me feel smart, educated, and not like an unemployed twenty-something who still lives with her mom and sister. 

            I stretch my bony arms and legs as I stumble out of bed onto the cold wood floors. I shiver. The hallway is quiet, and from what I can tell, so is the rest of the house. I slip into some sweatpants and a white tee and leave my disheveled bedroom behind.

             “Mom? Lydia?” I call for them but no one responds. I walk into the living room, seeing them sit on the couch as they are enamored by the glow of the television.
            “Quiet, we’re watching the news!” My mom croaked as a puff of smoke drifted from her lips.

            The man on the news, who I admittedly always had a tiny crush on as a teen girl, talks about the threats. His voice cracks like a boy’s.

            “�"No reports of missiles in the area yet but government agencies are monitoring any activity. . .” He gags. Is he scared? 

            “Why are you listening to this s**t? It’s all a ruse, a joke!” I try to be the reasoning one as usual; I try to be the calm sister/daughter who always thinks about tomorrow instead of today.

            “Honey, if there is a terrorist attack today I don’t want you going to work.” She looks straight at Lydia, and, of course, she doesn’t say anything about me.

            “Mom, I’m sure I’ll be fine. If anything serious happens I’m sure I can make it home in time.” Lydia was much shorter than I was but a lot heavier than me. She got the weight and I got the height. I’m not sure which one of us was more of the scathing spinster sister.

            “River, will you please run to the store and get some groceries? In case there’s an emergency, I want us to have food.”
            I shrug. “Mom, it’s not a tornado warning! It’s a threat from terrorists. If they attack we won’t need to worry about how much food we have. We’ll be dead.”

            And yes, my name is River. River Delilah Holmes. The “White-girl” name of the year, right? If you say my first and last name quick enough it sounds like “river homes.” Sadly, I don’t live next to a river. I live in suburbia. The closest thing to a river here is the overflowed toilet at the McDonald’s in town.

            “Alright, ladies, time for work.” Lydia grabs her shawl (she wears shawls and she’s only thirty but I swear she should be sixty), kisses mom on the cheek, waves slightly to me as a bye, sis, and leaves.

            “I hope she’ll be okay.” Mom rubs her wrinkled hands together and taps her foot impatiently. Of course she worries; her favorite daughter might get hurt sitting in the office all day!

            “I’m sure she’ll be fine, mom. The only dangers Lyd has to worry about are paper cuts and terminal work-place boredom.” I grab mom’s car keys from the rack by the door (and no I don’t have my own car) and leave mom to sulk in her anxiety fits. 

            As I walk out to mom’s old ’69 Camaro parked in the driveway, a real beauty according to some of the jag offs at the gas station, our neighbors, Bobby and Earline Stevens, waters their garden. I cover my face, thinking that might actually hide me from talking to them and their creepy obsession with flowers.

            “River!” Damn. “River, how are ya’.” Earline, wearing her plaid dress (a real eye-sore), catches me as I try to dive to the ground and sneak into the car.

            “Hey, Earline. Bobby.” I nod. Look busy, that’s it! I walk around to the driver side and slip the key into the lock and pop open the door. They’re still standing two feet away.

            “Did you hear about those threats from the foreigners? Awful, ain’t it?” Earline is about forty but tries to stay thirty through cosmetic surgery and, most likely, shelves of conditioners, oils, and other things to apply to her skin. I don’t know if she does it for herself to stay young like her daughter, or if she does it for her husband who maybe has a thing for young-looking girls. Either way, it makes me want to vomit on her disgusting dress. 

“Yeah, yeah,” I throw my hair back to look pompous, “I should get going. Gotta get to the store. But my mother is inside if you want to talk to her!” Take that, mom.

“We’d love to. Come on, Earline.” That’s right�"walk away. And finally, I’m alone in the car. .

Author's Note

This is only an excerpt. . .NOT A COMPLETED STORY. ITS A WIP.