The Fourth Trumpet by Theresa Jenner Garrido Page B

jiffy. And besides,” she gave a half-chuckle, “you need to find a dry shirt.”
    Eleazar complied and searched through the heap of clothing Keith had brought from upstairs. From the kitchen, Andrea could hear him talking with Carrie. She apparently was listening because there were no more outbursts or rebuttals. Andrea forced herself to concentrate on getting the can open. She didn’t want to think about life or babies or anything but soup.

ELEVEN
     
    The hot soup tasted like ambrosia to Andrea as she and her guests sat around the coffee table in the dark living room, wrapped in their own thoughts. Because it was the only warm room in the house, they did everything in that room—eat, sleep, talk. Visits to the bathroom were rushed affairs, and they took turns heating up small amounts of water for hurried spit-baths. Andrea never realized how luxurious a shower was until she had to do without. Just being able to shampoo her hair and do her nails would be an exciting treat. How she longed for yesterday—those happy, carefree days with her family. She almost chuckled aloud. Carefree? All the arguments and defiance? She’d give anything to tell her aunt and uncle that she’d be glad to go to college. She’d do anything they asked. She’d had it so easy and never gave it a thought. She realized now how spoiled she’d been.
    They decided to retire after finishing the humble meal. No one was in the mood to play a game. Carrie and Andrea were tired of talking. Eleazar agreed. They needed a good sleep to get back their “momentum,” he said. Andrea carried the bowls into the kitchen and rinsed them. Then she shuffled to the back door and peered out the small window at the impenetrable gloom. On impulse, she opened the door and stuck her head out.
    She listened.
    No sound teased her ears, no wind, no animal noises. Tears welled up. She wanted to believe that everything would be all right. She did. But how could she, when so much suffering was cascading down upon them like a tidal wave? A deep pain burned inside her that nothing seemed able to soothe. She felt incredibly sorry for herself, her lost family, her dead neighbors, for the pregnant girl sitting in the living room, for the missing husband and Keith and Thor—everybody. Too much!
    Andrea closed the door, locked it, and returned to the living room. After a quick trip to the bathroom, she crawled inside her sleeping bag and pulled the cover up over her head. Eleazar had built up the fire, with a brief comment about the diminishing stack of wood. Andrea promised to get more wood later. She’d almost said “in the morning” but then thought how ridiculous that sounded. There was no morning. Only infinite night. Forever-and-ever darkness.
    Carrie was already in her bag, eyes closed. Eleazar grabbed two blankets and lay on the couch. The clock ticked. Once in a while an ember settled with a light, crackling thunk. Other than that, their breathing and an occasional cough were the only sounds in the room. They slept.
    Something awakened Andrea. She stirred within the confines of the warm sleeping bag. Lying still, she listened, waiting for the sound to come again. It didn’t, so she unzipped her bag, lifted up her head and leaned on one elbow. A dark mound three feet away was Carrie, obviously in a deep sleep. She could make out the form of Eleazar on the couch. He, too, was fast asleep. No one moved or shifted or sighed. The only sound was the ticking of Great Uncle Fred.
    And then she heard it.
    Nebulous, innocuous, and at first she hadn’t any idea where it was coming from. Tensing, she sat up, straining to hear. Where? The kitchen? Upstairs? Or, God forbid—the basement?
    Outside. Definitely coming from outside—in the front yard. Andrea slipped out of the sleeping bag and stood up. Arms groping, feet shuffling, she made her way across the room, to the window. She pulled back the drape, and looked out, held her breath. She couldn’t see a thing.
    About to