The Storm by Kevin L Murdock Page A

going to let you sleep a while longer.”
                  Though awake and alert, the dream was already fading from my thoughts into a distant memory. Within moments, it would be relegated to the world of suppressed emotions and memories that collectively builds in the back of the mind. Although I could rapidly dump the image of what I had seen, the feeling of hopelessness it left me with was still making my hands shake. It took me a few seconds to reply to Stacy as she stared. “Yeah, I’m . . . Uh . . . I just had a bad dream is all. Kids back yet?”
                  “No, I was about to go get them. I hope Puba didn’t mind too much. Really, you can lie back down and sleep if you want. You stayed up most of last night.”
                  We can hide or fake most of our thoughts and emotions with other people, but sleep deprivation is solved only by copious amounts of coffee, and my face was betraying how I felt. Someone once said that some sleep is better than no sleep. They were wrong. I would have been better taking a walk than waking like this. A headache was coming, but it would have to be ignored. Terror is something rarely felt by individuals in modern society, but it clarifies the mind and gives focus. Within seconds of waking, I had a mental list of things to do immediately. “No, Stace. No more sleep for me now.” Pulling on my pants and shaking my head side to side, I looked over at her. “Hey, there is something you need to see before the kids get back. Sit right here. This is important.”
                  I walked downstairs and grabbed the big green duffle bag. If it felt heavy earlier, it was twice as bad now. The muscles in my arms were already stiff and sore before they even began to flex. At least this time it only had to be moved upstairs. Stacy wouldn’t like this. She’s always been pretty adamant about not having guns in the house. If I pray for anything today, it’s for her understanding. One step at a time, I climbed with the big green beast.
                  Entering the room, I plopped the bag on the bed and its contents made a crunching pop sound, the same kind you’d hear in a factory with metal parts clanging around. Before I could open it or speak, Stacy laughed. “What the hell is that? Did you steal some poor soldier’s life belongings?”
                  Chuckling back but aware she already could see this was the type of bag soldiers used, I responded. “Not really. Not unless you count old Adam Greenleaf as a jarhead. He’s one tough dude,” I said acrimoniously and received a sharp laugh from her.
                  “I’m not sure he could intimidate a cat, let alone a soldier. So what’s in the bag?”
                  “Well . . .” There was a pause from me. “A few things. Before you get upset, I need you to realize that these aren’t normal times, hunie.”
                  She cut me off swiftly. “Did you bring a gun into this house?” Her lips had shrunk to half their normal size as she spoke. Yup, this was the reaction I had expected.
                  “Yes, two of them.”
                  “Oh, I guess you can’t shoot enough people with one so you had to go and get two! Great.” She was speaking really fast now and her lips were pressed tightly together so they were merely one fourth their normal size. “One for you to go out and play soldier with, and one for the kids to get into. I’m not happy with you right now.”
                  It suddenly occurred to me that I now understood how a baseball player feels when he’s at the plate and suddenly has two strikes against him. He’s not finished, but it’s an ugly feeling to be close to striking out. What I needed was a hit, no bunts or further strikes.
                  “I had to get them, Stacy.” An urgency was in my voice, a tone that I seldom