It was November 1999, 78 degrees, and dust clung to each drop of sweat that seeped from Gloria’s forehead as she forced a shovel into stubborn earth. She felt like Pete’s lackey, digging for the bomb shelter. The site reeked of ammonia–her husband had softened the caliche with buckets of his own piss before taking the jackhammer to it. Gloria spritzed a purple bandana with Clinique Happy and tied it tight around the lower half of her face.
The shelter itself had already been constructed. She and Pete just had to drive the thirty minutes to Tempe to load it onto the trailer and drop it into the pit. Pete had instructed Gloria to focus on the digging while he headed to town for ammo. He didn’t want her to get the wrong rounds, he said, like she did last time. It’d already been an hour. The shovel struck a large chunk of schist. The vibration sent Gloria to her knees, puking into the hole.
Whenever someone asked what it felt like to be pregnant, Gloria said simply, “snakes.” In the pitiless spotlight of Arizona sun, childbearing was penal, a molten bowling ball thrust against her bladder. If she hadn’t heard the familiar crunch of Pete’s truck on gravel, she would’ve thought the large, black Chevy a mirage. Finally. She tossed aside the shovel, sprinted across the barren backyard, rushed through the backdoor, then helped herself to two big glasses of chilled sweet tea.
“Hey Lazybones,” Pete said as he entered, lugging a heaping bag of bullets. He dropped them with a clang, then locked the door behind him as always. “Pick your poison.”
Gloria found Pete’s preparations superfluous. Even if all the computers really did short out and God really did rush to punish His people for their sins of false idolatry and endless greed, why would anybody want their single-family home or its inhospitable land? There would be mansions to overtake, skyscrapers and malls. With hesitance, she approached the mound. “Damn, hon. How much you get?”
“Enough, hopefully!” Pete bent to free the shoelaces from their hooked eyelets on his ancient boots, then groaned as he straightened his spine. A studded scar wound his forearm, a casualty of rebar cut with a circular saw. Gloria stroked the keloid. Pete cupped her hand and thumbed her knuckles. Though they’d been together since ‘94 and Pete was twelve years her senior, her husband had not once turned Gloria off. Even as she shook bedsheets free of shed chest hair and tossed mucilaginous Q-tips in the trash, she’d remained smitten. All her fatherless life, Gloria had wanted a man, and here was a man.
Gloria gazed into the bullet bag, studying the metal. She imagined stringing all the leftover shotgun shells together to wear as a necklace after New Year’s, when the world remained anything but atomized. She looked at Pete, and sang, “Every kiss begins with Kay.”
“You’re odd as they come, Glore.” Pete lifted his wife’s ring finger to his lips, gave the sterling silver a little smooch. “Whadda ya two want for supper?” Pete poked her belly. “Pickles and scrambled eggs, again?”
Gloria had never yearned for anything more than last night’s pickles. But today her arms were weak, her mind weary after all that shoveling in the sun. “I think I’d like a steak,” she confessed, “and some aloe vera for my damned back.” Gloria lowered her bra strap.
“Oh my! You’re red and white as Old Glory!” Pete said. “Don’t the Hastings got an aloe plant over there?”
With that, Gloria slid into flip-flops and crept out the door.
Back when Johnny Hastings had first stopped mowing their lawn, Gloria assumed that, at fifteen, he’d finally secured his first real job. But then he stopped waving back whenever she and Pete said hi. At first, it made no sense; they’d always been generous with payment, offering Johnny $10 an hour. It took a while to dawn on her, but finally it did: Mr. and Mrs. Hastings no longer allowed Johnny to mow their lawn. They thought she and Pete were freaks.
Gloria knew the Hastings would be at work and Johnny in school, but she still surveyed the premises before crossing the gravel. When Pete convinced her to quit Montgomery Ward, she’d been relieved. She could just sit at home and feel the baby grow. But once Pete stopped selling insurance, he put her to work. Preparation became the priority, and it required grit. Scanning barcodes and complimenting other women no longer seemed so difficult. If Montgomery Ward wouldn’t take her back after the new year, she’d cross the mall’s crowded food court and apply to JCPenney.
Gloria crouched by the mailbox and carefully tore the aloe to look like a gopher had taken a chomp. She slipped the chunk into her shorts and scuttled back across the road. She’d ask Pete to extract the gel. He could do anything.
…
The following week, Pete’s parents called to express disappointment in him and Gloria for their refusal to fly to Texas for Thanksgiving. Pete slammed the phone into the cradle and sighed.
“We’ve got too much work to do, Glore.”
Gloria felt sorry for Pete. When he’d tried to warn his parents about Y2K, they made fun of him. Every generation thinks the world’s about to end, Pete’s mother had said. And guess what? We’re still here! So, on the phone, Pete lied. He told them that Gloria’s prenatal doctor—which they didn’t even have—forbade them to fly. When his parents suggested they drive, he said Gloria couldn’t sit for that long without “folding” the baby in New Mexico.
At times like these, Gloria was relieved her entire family was dead or estranged. She had no one to answer to. Even friends had burned into the periphery since she’d married Pete. The wedding was the last time she’d seen her high school friends, most of whom went on to college or had weddings of their own.
Pete had made an ass of himself at the reception. He’d drunk two too many martinis and groped Gloria’s breast through her bridal gown in front of everyone. In the morning, of course, he was ashamed. In fact, he hadn’t touched a drop of liquor since. Still, Gloria suspected her friends thought him a scrub. But he was competent. And, despite his mistakes, he consistently made her feel safe.
“We can do Thanksgiving here,” Gloria said. “Roast our own little turkey.”
“Booyah!”
…
By mid-December, Gloria’s sunburn had become a tan-line and the shelter had been successfully lowered. While Pete worked on HVAC and remodeling the bug out van, Gloria was assigned to the kitchen where she blasted the stereo and pressurized green beans, dehydrated venison, stuffed Mylar bags full of brown rice, rolled oats, fusilli, and black beans. None of the FM stations spoke of peril, electing instead to ring in the new year. For this reason, Pete insisted they keep the radio to AM where, yes, they had to endure staticky classical, but at least the AM DJs were trustworthy in Pete’s opinion, occasionally speaking of doom, not just trying to attract more listeners. Whenever Gloria had had enough, she popped in one of her Dido or Michelle Branch CDs.
Gloria kept an eye on the jerky. Pete had asked her to keep it pink and moist. He’d killed the deer himself and instructed Gloria to marinate, then dehydrate, the meat as his mother had taught: Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce, A1, ground black pepper, lemon juice, a dash of onion powder. The recommended dehydration time was four hours, but Pete liked it taken out at two.
Gloria taste-tested before sealing and storing. Though she’d never made jerky, she suspected it was just right. Still juicy and tender, the marinade burst across her tongue. She knew she should save more for storage, but, knowing the freezer held more meat, she shoved strip after strip into her mouth.
Each time the baby kicked, Gloria got goosebumps. She’d asked other women at the Escombros YMCA prenatal wellness class if the sensation was common, but they all shook their heads. Those women had been so unfriendly, always flocking to the smoothie stand to gossip for thirty minutes before the subsequent yoga class. Gloria had joined them once, but felt bitter afterwards. The women had joked about how the wellness instructor looked pregnant too, and during Downward Dog, Gloria felt encumbered by her own belly, so much so that she angrily considered abortion.
As her pregnancy progressed, the thought cropped up more and more. The baby felt like some sort of succubus sucking the life from her. Gloria felt like a shell of herself, alive only for the benefit of the thing inside her. Regardless, she was too far along. And if Pete found out she was even considering an abortion, he would leave her. So, desperately, she continued to chew jerky, fully aware the undercooked meat might cause a miscarriage.
…
On Christmas Eve, Gloria woke to a knock at the door. Sluggishly careening into the living room, she expected the mailman, but instead found Mrs. Hastings, standing perfectly prim in the 7a.m. light of Friday morning. Gloria felt suddenly embarrassed by her bedhead and baggy shirt draped loosely over her baby bump and swollen tits.
“Hello Gloria. Did you guys get a package addressed to us?”
A cramp struck Gloria’s gut coupled with urgent nausea.
“Uh, not that I know of, Mrs. Hastings. Let me go ask Pete.”
Hunched, Gloria waddled back to the bedroom and rubbed Pete’s back until he stirred.
“Mrs. Hastings says she’s missing a package.”
Pete grumbled and wiped gunk from his eyes. “Package of what?”
Gloria shrugged.
“Tell her to wait a few days. Post office is slammed during the holidays.”
A chill swept Gloria’s body as she stood. She felt seasick as she plodded back down the hall, gripping passing door frames for balance. Once she reached the front, her vision blurred. “Pete says delivery times are slower around the holidays.”
“I’m aware.”
Across the gravel road, the Hastings’ house was decked in string lights, a giant Grinch on a sled in the front yard. Gloria had been so busy doomsday prepping that she had failed to order a single gift. Plus, Pete wouldn’t have let her. Their savings was allocated to the cause.
“I’m sure it’ll turn up,” Gloria said, reaching to swipe a trickle of sweat from her brow.
“Better late than never.” Mrs. Hastings pivoted sharply, then marched back across the yard.
Lowering herself back into bed, Gloria ached. She admired Pete in his peaceful sleep. He was the kind of man who never remembered dreams.
When their alarm sounded, Gloria jolted upright and rushed to the bathroom. Her abdomen churned as she voided herself into the toilet. She wiped several times before standing to examine the bowl. The water was a deep red. Gloria felt panic, then relief.
By the time she returned, Pete was already up and dressed.
“I pray to God there are more men like me,” he said, jabbing his pointer toward the Hastings’. “I can’t imagine being such a deadbeat dad. Even if nothing happens—though it definitely will—it is downright despicable to not be ready. Just the thought boils my blood.” Pete gripped his Longhorns ball cap so hard bone showed through his knuckles. “May they suffer The Tribulation.”
Gloria knew it took a real man to prepare for his family, but she also knew they wouldn’t be in the shelter for long before signs of continued life began to creep in. “Uh-huh,” she said. “I think I’m gonna go get more supplies for the First-Aid kit.”
“We’re gonna need a jar of honey, and some garlic,” Pete said. “Good antibiotics. Belladonna too, in case of fever. If Walgreens doesn’t have it, I guess Aspirin works. But only if the fever gets out of hand.”
Gloria nodded as she pulled out a dresser drawer, knowing she would stash real meds for herself. She missed regular clothes. She missed squeezing all of her into size four jeans. The elastic marks her pregnancy pants lashed across her stomach looked like mottled intestines. She hoped that she, like her mother before her, would let the weight fall off easily, even if there would only be Pete to see.
…
Gloria felt like a mad cow crashing through the doors at Walgreens. Under the fluorescents, she grew even madder. A headache throbbed from deep within her skull, radiated to her temples.
She only wanted Pepto-Bismol. She didn’t have the heart to worry Pete by listing her symptoms; he did not approve of Western medicine. Once located, she uncapped and chugged a couple mouthfuls of viscous pink sludge right there in the aisle. She ignored price tags as she tossed the requested medical supplies into her cart.
Gloria stalked the aisles in a feverish haze until she reached her favorite: hair care. She popped the lids of several bottles and squeezed to deliver whiffs to her nostrils. Gloria preferred floral and fruity fragrances to any soaps named things like “fresh and clean.” An Herbal Essences commercial, the one where a woman is olfactorily transported to a foggy sexual fantasy in a dimly lit living room only to snap out of it by her own orgasmic shrieks in the middle of a grocery store, resonated with Gloria, even more so now that pregnancy had drastically heightened her sense of smell. She sniffed one bottle after another. Her favorite was L’Oreal Kids Extra Gentle 2-in-1 Strawberry Smoothie. She knew that, after the bug, she’d be most nostalgic for proper showers. She would have to settle for sanitary wipes and baking soda, the only warm liquid leaking from her own tired tits.
Gloria’s head pounded as she managed her way toward the registers. A blooming ache seized her chest at the sight of Y2K novelty glasses. The 0s were lenses, and glitter glizted every plastic millimeter of frame. Gloria’s awareness drifted to the other shoppers, filling baskets with perishable or otherwise useless-in-the-face-of-apocalypse goods. She worried she’d run into former coworkers. The ladies of Montgomery Ward had made Gloria self-conscious.
Gloria’s stomach buckled, forcing her to her knees beside a display of on-sale stocking stuffers doomed to expire. She lay her cheek against the cool tile of the floor and focused on her breath like the Y’s prenatal trainer would instruct her to do. Heat seeped and oozed from between her legs. She struggled onto her side. A woman’s voice far above cooed, “Ma’am?”
The employee was blurry but her human shape was comforting. Gloria squinted at her chest to make out her name tag so she could thank her properly for her concern. The hand felt cool against Gloria’s forehead and, like when the school nurse searched her scalp for lice, she wished the touch would never leave. “Ma’am? You okay?” She couldn’t bring herself to respond. She worried that once she spoke, time would march mercilessly on.
…
By New Year’s Eve, Gloria felt better, though she knew the baby was dead. It hadn’t kicked in over a week, and instead of feeling like two, Gloria knew she was one. It had been difficult to hide the spotting, so Gloria inserted tampons before bed and took care to cut the strings. Pete’s libido tanked months back when the stretch marks appeared, but still, she found herself praying he wouldn’t forget his repulsion.
In the final hours of the year, Gloria snuck more Pepto-Bismol from her purse and lay flat on the couch. Pete paced the length of the living room worrying his hands. After a bit of this, he confessed to taking the Hastings’ package. He hadn’t read the shipping address, had just opened it to find a pacifier, rattle, and a pink crocheted blanket he assumed was sent by his mom. It wasn’t until breaking down boxes the day after Christmas that he realized.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “What was I going to say? ‘I thought it was for me?’ Besides, there’s no way Mrs. Hastings is pregnant. Her stomach is Pilates-flat.”
Gloria recounted when Mrs. Hastings showed up at their door. By then, Gloria had already begun to lactate, and perhaps her sweat read like guilt. “They think we’re freaks,” she said.
“Well, we’ll have the last laugh.”
Gloria felt no foreboding. It seemed strange the world could be about to end and she couldn’t feel it. When they’d first started dating, she could always sense whether or not Pete was asleep. Likewise, she should be able to sense total global collapse. But her psyche was stagnant.
“Anyways,” Pete went on, “they’ll be dead in a matter of days, with or without child.”
Gloria’s thigh tickled. She looked down to discover a ladybug. Gingerly, she offered a pinky finger for it to climb onto. Then, she smushed it dead against her kneecap.
…
As Gloria trembled down the ladder, Pete hurried her. Despite the cinder block walls, the shelter still smelled like piss. The clammy atmosphere stood Gloria’s arm hairs on end. Pete had shoved several taper candles down the throats of empty wine bottles. The full-sized mattress was made tidily.
Pete sealed the blast door then, in the face of imminent Armageddon, smiled. “Look at the life we’ve made,” he said, “for her.” Pete’s palm pressed against Gloria’s belly. “I finished the last childbirth book today. Lying down is unnatural. We’re gonna have to squat.”
Gloria was startled by what sounded like a sequence of gunshots.
“See?” Pete said, hand pressing her bump. “It’s not safe out there.” The percussion persisted several minutes before Pete said, “Gloria, why isn’t she kicking?”
Above the Hastings’ property, Tangerine Dahlias crackled into strobe. Above a plume of gunpowder, golden glitter blazed. Dazzling Chrysanthemums periodically faded and burst. Red willows fizzled into mere embers. Peony after peony shimmered in the finale. By the time midnight struck, Escombros was silent, every star obscured by a massive cloud of smoke.
…
On the first day of the new millennium, Gloria awoke in a pool of blood rich with clots. She felt weak as she shined a flashlight upon the mess she’d made. Pete had not taken the miscarriage well and was, in fact, in denial. He had assured Gloria she was fine, the baby was fine, that a little spotting was typical right before labor, that it was merely a sign the baby would arrive early. “Winston Churchill was a preemie,” he had said, “and look at him.”
Gloria decided it would be necessary to show Pete the blood. She caressed him awake, then angled the flashlight.
“Look,” she said, “I need to see a doctor.”
“It’s not safe out there. The hospitals are probably already shut down. They run on computers like everything else.”
“Pete, this is my life we’re talking about.” Then, “And maybe hers.”
Pete turned on the batteried lamp beside the bed and rummaged through a box of books. “There has to be something to address this scenario. Maybe you’re going into labor.”
Gloria watched her husband desperately flipping pages. Maybe his spirit would be best broken by a book. This wasn’t the first time Pete dismissed Gloria’s thoughts. In fact, he never seemed to trust her judgment about anything–what exit to take, the future value of Beanie Babies, the likelihood of President Clinton’s affair. No matter what, Gloria was wrong. Despite having the bodily experience and bloody evidence to support her claim, he would never believe her.
“Pete, I really think it’s best I go.”
“Nonsense. Almost there.” Pete flipped a few more pages then slammed his finger on a sentence. “Here! Found it.” Hunched, he read the words aloud, “An increase in discharge: yellow, clear, and sometimes slightly bloody, may be a sign that labor is on the horizon. However, in the case of extreme bleeding—” Pete paused and read the rest in his head. “It’ll be fine, Glore.”
“What does it say?”
“Same stuff.”
Gloria rolled off the bed and grabbed for the book, which Pete snatched right away. “No,” he said. Gloria clawed at Pete, but he was stronger. “You callin’ me a liar?”
Pain gripped Gloria’s gut and she collapsed, retching the chalky pink remnants of Pepto Bismol upon her husband’s bare feet.
…
Emerging from the shelter, Gloria was unsurprised to see the house exactly as they had left it. The Hastings’ vehicles sat unperturbed in their driveway. Gloria’s pants sucked wet to her thighs as she walked toward the truck. Her own car, a near-new Chevy Lumina, had been sold at Pete’s insistence to cover shelter expenses. Pete had pleaded with her not to leave until the very last second. She threatened to never come back if he didn’t hand over his keys. She hated doing that, threatening, but there was no other way. It wasn’t until she reached the truck that she remembered she couldn’t drive stick.
“Fuck!” Gloria surveyed the neighborhood in sheer terror. There was no chance of taxis, no chance of catching a ride. She looked again toward the Hastings’ and, after a deep breath, did the only thing there was left to do.
“Gloria?” Mrs. Hastings answered the door and stared a few seconds before noticing the blood. “Holy shit, honey, you okay?”
Gloria’s legs felt weak, tingly as if pending paralysis. With arms outstretched, she lurched toward Mrs. Hastings, whose petite body broke the fall.
…
Gloria came to in the passenger seat of Mrs. Hastings’ SUV. She looked out the window at Escombros, which appeared normal. Lawns stayed sparse due to winter, the bank’s clock still ticking. There was not a single sign of the bug, the Great Tribulation, or anything. Gloria turned toward Mrs. Hastings and relished the sense of having awoken from a long, terrible dream.
“Feeling better, hon?” Mrs. Hastings asked.
Gloria, speechless, nodded.
Only a couple other cars were parked by the ER. When Gloria slid from the passenger’s seat, she noticed a trail of blood. She opened the glove box for napkins to wipe it up.
“Stop that,” Mrs. Hastings said. She grabbed Gloria by the arm and hurried her into the hospital.
The receptionist took down Gloria’s name and situation. Still dazed and incapable of articulating, Mrs. Hastings chimed in. “She’s bleeding out.”
Alarmed, the receptionist sent Gloria straight through the double doors to a vacant exam room. Nurses chattered, laughed, rolled carts. Through the closed door, Gloria overheard mundane complaints about hangovers.
The sheet of wax paper covering the exam chair crunched as Gloria sat. A nurse came to take her vitals and assured her the doctor would be in soon. Quiet Muzak played through an unseen speaker, a comforting and familiar melody.
…
As predicted, the ultrasound was unable to detect any heartbeat or movement. Given Gloria’s symptoms the prior week coupled with consumption of undercooked meat, Dr. Pacheko diagnosed Listeriosis-induced miscarriage.
“You can do one of two things,” she said. “Either wait for your body to go into labor or we can dilate you.”
Gloria imagined herself in the shelter, Pete coaching her through birthing the dead. She said, “I’d like to stay here.”
