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The radio says there will be an enemy attack Thursday the twelfth:
avoid people, don't drink water, don't go outside, avoid exposure
to sunlight, under no circumstances offer to help a stranger.
The television says undisclosed communications indicate a better-than-ninety-nine
percent chance enemies will attack Thursday, although it is not
known who, where or how; take no chances, and we'll be right back.
The newspaper says America braces for worst enemy attack in history
Thursday; supermarkets emptied of canned food and bottled water
by people afraid other people would take it all.
The Office of Homeland Insecurity has worked out thousands of ways
enemies might inflict terror, from striking at the nation's waste
disposal network to poisoning the language.
"Well we'll have to work extra fast and drain the landfill
Wednesday then, and maybe stay in on Thursday" says Mitty;
his stomach feels repossessed and he stares sadly at the sunset.
Biederman thumbs the remote to mute the commercial for the home
security system they can not afford.
They wonder about each other and the danger, which is invisible,
unknown, unpredictable.
Wednesday it rains all day and they watch the television and listen
to the radio and read the newspaper: everyone interviewed says they
believe it is true.
Thursday the Twelfth it stops raining so they drain the landfill.
From a mountain of diseased waste oozes a toxic seepage that has
to be contained.
Beneath compost, auto parts, dead animals, mold, shredded plastic,
broken furniture, condoms, a brown trickle meanders.
They work to capture the trickle and fill jugs.
When there is the sound of an airplane Biederman disappears inside
the shell of a Cadillac.
Biederman clutching a shotgun peers up through the broken windshield
tracking the buzz uncertainly.
When a gust blows a spatter of rain, Biederman shrieks and runs
inside.
Mitty stands there and watches a drop roll off his forearm, wondering
whether it burns.
Don't trust anything, the news had said, not even yourself.
Enemies are training dogs that explode when you try to pet them.
Injecting cyanide into raindrops and scattering them from hissing
hot air balloons.
Putting into orbit an artificial sun whose rays are deadly.
Genetically engineering cute kittens whose venom is deadly poison.
Spreading anthrax through infected public toilet seats.
From flowers in the park dispersing fragrant nerve gas.
Toiling in the sun, Mitty, what will you do when the power goes
off?
The radio will crackle and die, a whine descends as the pump cuts
off.
Atop a garbage mound a figure moves.
Her expression is glazed.
She wears a strange uniform.
She walks toward you.
Jump and shout.
She continues approaching, carrying a basket.
"Stay away!"
"Speak English!"
"Put the bomb down!"
She steps over a mound of something brown.
Pick up a stale lump of bread.
It is hard as rock.
Hit her in the head.
She blinks and falls down dead.
Three more intruders approach from the shed.
Pick up a shovel.
Its blade is twisted and rusted.
Fling it.
It approaches the children like a helicopter rotor.
Their bodies twitch in the dirt.
And there are more and more.
And more.
A swarm.
They emerge from the corners of things.
Identical uniforms, blank expressions, marching solemnly.
With the garbage tractor you mow them down.
Some try to escape, confused.
Put a fork in an eye.
Crush a head with an iron skillet.
Put them in the compactor.
Arms and legs flail between metal jaws.
They bleed.
Biederman knows he won't be able to see them coming after dark,
so he runs up to the road, where a schoolbus lies on its side beside
a broken pole, electrical cables trailing on the ground sputtering
iridescent sparks, the driver hanging limp from the windshield,
the front tires shredded from where they had run over the razorwire
he had strung across the road.
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