The End is Coming

Chapter Twelve

John Rourke started to run, toward the woman outdistancing the two children—toward Sarah, Michael, Annie. Sarah wasn’t wearing a bra—he could tell that, because as she ran her fists were balled up and tucked up under her chest—she al-ways ran like that if she just wore a shirt or blouse and no bra. Michael—he was taller, bigger-look-ing than he had been—fine-looking. Annie—her hair was longer, her smile something he had never forgotten.

As he ran, he stripped the CAR-15 from his shoulder, holding the rifle now by the pistol grip, almost like a balance pole for an acrobat. He could hear her—”John!” Rourke shouted the word: “Sarah!” He threw himself into the run, hearing the chil-dren screaming to him, his eyes riveting to Sarah’s face—one hundred yards now, ninety yards—”Sarah—” eighty yards, the tall grass in the field parting like an ocean wave in front of his feet, his mouth open gulping air, his hands out at his sides, the rifle weightless to him in his clenched right fist.

Twenty-five yards—he ran, Sarah’s face clear to him, her right hand reaching up and tugging away the bandanna covering her head, her hair falling into the wind longer than he had seen it for years—ten yards. Five—

John Rourke swept his wife into his arms, their mouths finding each other, Rourke crushing her against him, feeling her body mold to his.

He buried his face in her neck for a moment, kissing her, inhaling her—

He kissed her hair as she pressed her head against his chest.

He looked down—Michael and Annie— “Daddy!” It was Annie, the smile. John Rourke dropped to his knees, losing the CAR-15 in the high grass, folding his son and his daughter into his body—Sarah fell to her knees, her arms about his neck, holding him tight as he held the children.

“Daddy—” It was Michael—

John Rourke cried.