Tourists of the Apocalypse by C. F. WALLER

and slips through the screen door. It’s a running joke that he and the reclusive Mr. Dibble are a couple. He has a pretty good sense of humor about it, but at times he can get a little riled up. Izzy pulls her dirty cat slippers up on the chair and wraps her arms over her knees. Her ponytail is a mess, random hairs sticking up like stray blades of grass. She rarely wears makeup, but there are dark smudges on her cheeks this morning that were once eyeliner. An image of a makeup smeared pillow case floats across my mind, but then I notice her staring at me.
    “What?” I utter, putting my hands up.
    “You should stay here and take care of Missy.”
    “Graham promised to look after her.”
    “What’s the commitment?”
    “Huh?”
    “How long did you sign up for?” she recites slowly.
    “Three years.”
    Izzy holds up a hand and counts to herself. She taps her thumb on her fingers one at a time to aid her math. As she stares past me deep in thought I return to day dreaming about her smudged makeup, but this time on my own sheets. She puffs air up again to clear her bangs. She’d be comical if she wasn’t so cute. This girl couldn’t look bad if she tried.
    “So back by what?” she ponders aloud. “Fall 2013.”
    “Unless I re-enlist.”
    “How long would that be?” she demands. “If you re-upped?”
    “I don’t know. I’m not even in yet. Why is this important?”
    “Just don’t commit past 2015,” she orders, seeming to have not heard my last statement. “Promise you will talk to me before you sign anything else.”
    “Yes Mom.”
    “Don’t call me that,” she frowns, pulling her knees up tight to her chest. “I’m not old enough to be your Mum.”
    “How old are you?” I inquire, sure she’s at least seven or eight years older than me at minimum.
    “You can’t ask a girl that.”
    “Fine, then what’s so important about 2015?”
    “Nothing,” she snips defensively, slipping off the chair to re-fill her mug. “It’s 2016 that’s going to be dicey.”
    “Huh?”
    “Never you mind,” she lectures, wagging a finger at me. “Just talk to me before you sign anything.”
    With this, she walks around behind my chair and gives me a halfway hug trying not spill her mug. Lavender and burnt coffee smells linger in my nostrils. I feel her kiss me on the head and then she scoots to the door, turning as she pulls the screen open.
    “I’ll return the cup.”
    “You hug like my mother.”
    “I’m not old enough,” she remarks defensively, turning and heading out over the lawn.
    I rise and lean on the door frame watching her through the screen. Izzy shuffles along, her pajama bottoms dragging in the wet grass. T-Buck comes down his driveway and the two converse. He glances back in my direction, then she waves him off and marches back to her place. T-Buck watches me as he goes back into his garage. Stepping out on my porch, I can see the door is all the way up. Peering out from inside are a pair of headlights. The red stripped hood is up, but I can’t make out what sort of car it is. As I step closer to that side of the porch for a better view, the door begins to roll down.
    “This street is like an episode of the Twilight Zone .”
     
    Mr. Dibble has a bad cold, although it could be the flu. I come home on leave from the Army to find him in my room. A physician I have never met, but claims to be local, is there on a house call. After a few minutes spent hugging my mother, I step outside for some fresh air. It’s quiet on Oakmont Street for late afternoon, at least as I recall it. It’s been a year since I left for boot camp. I could have come home any number of times, but waited as long as possible. It’s not that I don’t like being here, but the constant pressure to stay home and not enlist got to be a bit daunting. I had the strangest feeling I was letting everyone down.
    Dickey’s car is sitting in his driveway four houses down, so I walk along the sidewalk to see if he’s