We walked down the thicket path to Main street, keeping our heads low, covertly peeking through the clearings of foliage. Old vehicles – some military – were lined up on both sides of Main, one after another, their engines running. Men with assault rifles sat on the bumpers, taking turns patrolling the street, slowly turning their heads in 180 degree arcs, ready to defend the flanks. Some remained on standby inside their vehicles; others were crowded onto the attached flatbeds, sweating profusely and guzzling down beers. A rough looking crowd covered in war tats and wearing mismatched uniform attire, like they were going deer hunting after a weekend military exercise.
Poor old Lucy was agitated and snarling, didn’t like the gathering of men. She was panting something fierce, her hot breaths inflating her mask like a balloon. I soothed her with a few doggy treats, keeping my right arm wrapped around her shivering body, making sure to keep her mask from taking off. She was fixing for a fight, but I knew better and held her in place, hoping nobody would notice us. Fortunately, the mask muffled the growling and hid her shiny white fangs. I think maybe she was a pioneer feminist in a past life, despising testosterone fueled cowboys, both then and now.
The air was thick with humidity and the smell of exhaust, uniforms, gun grease, and weed. It wasn’t easy to take a deep breath. Billowy black clouds hung from the sky, almost reaching the tree tops, but without a breeze. Not a leaf moving anywhere in sight. I imagined the clouds bursting forth, drenching the thugs into retreat, maybe even drowning them in enormous puddles. But, nothing happened. The dark sky looked like a suspended moment painted on a canvas, and we felt the same inside, our fears suspended with frozen gulps in our throats, hanging like the clouds. And so we cuddled together – me and my dog – as if Pompeii’s Mount Vesuvius were erupting again, waiting to be sealed in a perpetual embrace for the next few centuries. But thank God, this was not our time to die.
The patrol of bandits finished their reconnaissance in a hurry, looking kind of tired and rather subdued for a militant group on a mission. They packed themselves into the trucks and back onto the flatbeds, moving down the road, one after another, until there was silence. And that was when the torrential rains began, with claps of thunder and strokes of lightening. Lucy and I huddled underneath a big shady tree, until the storms subsided enough to walk home. Our masks were soaked and drippy, and Lucy relished in that, shaking her mug all over the living room, spraying me with rain water.
The next day, the local gazette published an article about the “Men without Masks” militia group – a marauding gang of thugs that got struck by the virus, decimating them to the point of extinction. Apparently, they flooded the local hospital during the storm, but most of them succumbed that night to the latest variant – a particularly deadly, fast acting one floating around Main street. Yep, those were the tired looking roughnecks we spied upon. I recalled the “MWM” logo on their caps and the absence of masks. Poor fellas, dying for their cause. Maybe if they’d checked the weather forecast and postponed things, the outcome would’ve been different.
Lucy had a different take on things. The next time we walked down the thicket path, she proudly sported her new checkerboard mask, as if she’d joined a parade. And on main, she slowed to a trot, turning her head in 180 degree arcs, pretending to survey the flanks. I guess that was her version of comic relief.
© 2021 David M. Rubin. All rights reserved.
Notes from David 