Erma decided with her father on her twelfth birthday to take the last name Unkin in memory of her mom. She found herself often comparing her life to that of her mom. At this age, Bridgett had already seen a man die and was thinking about leaving Hillston, the only place she’d ever known. Erma’s life was not this interesting. Her father had resigned and moved them northeast before Erma was old enough to remember things and so she had no memory of the area where her mom had grown up. She only had memories of the pine and spruce trees of northern Vermont. Her dad had said that he wanted to get as far away as possible from all the things that killed her mom and that this place was, at the very least, remote. 

But it drove Erma crazy. 

She travelled forty-three miles to and from school twice a week and all of her friends lived almost an entire day away. They could only hang out on weekends when Erma could sleep over. Jameson would not allow guests at their home. It was just the two of them and mostly she tried to ignore her father and stay in her room. It was easier that way.

Erma was not certain of the work that her father did, but she knew that he was well connected to the outside world because he would report the happenings to her in excruciating detail. She knew that the Emergent and Endurance forces were clashing more frequently and further east and that it was called something now: The War of Justice. She knew that the remnants of the NAE was crumbling or perhaps had already all but dissolved just south of them. She knew that her father was getting more nervous. It seemed like every day he was checking their food storage in the basement of the large old house they lived in. He would call her down to help him count and recount and even though she hated it she still did it because it was the only time he talked about her mom.

“She was so strong. Did I tell you that she left when she was sixteen and walked for months before finding another town. Walked! By herself,” he would say.

“Yes, you told me father.”

“I can’t even imagine it. I would have died for sure.”

“I know. You’re not that strong.”

“Hey!”

“Just kidding!”

It was like this every time. Sometimes he would talk to her about when her mom died and the prayer he uttered even though he was not religious. Sometimes he would talk about the night he proposed to Bridgett and how nervous he was. Sometimes he would talk about friends that were lost during the conflict. But it was only when they went into the basement. She thought there must be something about preparing for disaster that reminded him of her.

Erma woke up to the sound of her father screaming on January 17th, 2275.

“Erma! Get up now! Let’s go. Pack a bag!”

She was slow to move. There was something about the warmth of the blankets in the dead of winter that made it difficult. 

She opened her eyes to see her father bursting through the door. Jameson was sweating and out of breath and Erma knew immediately the severity of the situation. 

She followed his instructions to the letter and packed a bag of essential and warm clothing. She gathered keepsakes and blankets and met her father at the door of the basement. They went down together and locked both the wooden outside door and the heavy insulated metal door on the inside that cranked like a ships wheel until eight bars blocked the entrance. She walked down the stairs and set her things on the smaller of the the beds in the room, the one next to the canned food items, and she turned to see her father coming in behind and doing the same.

He took the old satellite radio from a shelf over the staircase and turned it on. He had told Erma that it was tuned to an Emergency network that was only accessible by world governments usually, that it was created during The Conflict, but he didn’t tell Erma how he had gotten it.

He switched it on.

Only static.

He was staring intensely at the radio as though if he looked hard enough and with enough focus, it would somehow start to work.

It did not.

“Maybe it’s broken,” she said after they listened in silence for one minute and fifteen seconds. He hushed her quickly without shifting his attention. Erma noticed that both his hands and his knees were shaking and it made her more nervous.

“Father?”

No reply.

“Dad. What’s happening?”

He broke his gaze and turned to her and she saw fear in his eyes.

“I don’t know.” His voice was tense and tight.

It was fourteen minutes and thirty-four seconds later when the static broke into the calm and direct voice of a woman explaining the status of the country. Erma listened deeply but could not fully understand everything the woman was saying about melanocytes and the activation of the weaponized substance but she understood clearly the scope: someone dropped some sort of genetic weapon over seventy-two different cities across the world. Billions of people were already dead or dying and the expectation was that the number would double in the next seventy-two hours.

“If your ancestors lived north of the equator and you are still alive,” the woman concluded, “stay inside and thank whatever God you pray to.”

Then her tone changed to something full of malice.

“Despite the setbacks, it is finally here. It is the beginning of a new world. Stay tuned.”

Erma looked over at her dad and immediately knew that it was worse than she could comprehend. He pulled her into a tight hug.

“We’re alive,” he said.