Preston Alexander flinched when he dropped the Erlenmeyer flask onto the off-white linoleum floor, jumping back in hope of avoiding boiling agar.  The flask broke on contact and clear, superheated syrupy goo splashed all over the floor.  Now he had a mess to clean up, and a ruined experiment to boot.  Sometimes life just sucked.  He would have to start over.  If he finished his work by midnight, he would count himself lucky, but late nights were the lot of a Ph.D. student.   Preston sighed.  He was getting sick and tired of grad student life.  Being a scientist had long since lost its allure to the minutia of tedious experiments that never seemed to run smoothly.
Thankfully the normally busy lab was empty.  At least no one had witnessed him acting like a klutz.

As he grabbed some paper towels to mop up the spilled agar before it solidified, it felt as if the floor turned to Jell-O under his feet.  He nearly fell down, catching himself on the lab bench.  The whole lab started to shake, as if in an earthquake.  Glassware rattled against each other on the shelves and a rack of pipettes fell over.  Preston struggled to maintain his footing.  After a few seconds, the shaking stopped.

An earthquake?  Preston thought as he finished cleaning up agar.  Maybe if he were in Southern California, but in Northern Vermont is seemed unlikely.  He recalled reading somewhere that earthquake shocks could essentially reach anywhere, but some fault lines were more active than others.  At least now he had an excuse for his stalled experiment.  He didn’t drop the flask.  No, it fell off the lab bench due to the earthquake. 
Preston decided to take a walk around the department, to see if anyone else had felt the shaking, or knew what it might have been.

As soon as he stepped out the door into the hallway, he saw he wasn’t alone.  Several other graduate students were standing in groups of two and three, talking.  He even saw a professor speaking with one of the postdocs from the Smith Lab.

Preston saw Carrie Johnson at the end of the hall, standing there in tight jeans and an expensive looking light blue sweater, nicely accentuating her shapely frame, talking with another grad student.  He walked over.

“Did you guys feel that?” Preston asked, inserting himself between Carrie and an older grad student named Ben.  Ben shot him a sharp look, obviously wanting to keep Carrie’s attentions for himself.

“It was obviously some sort of earthquake,” Ben said, somewhat condescendingly.

“In Vermont?” Carrie asked. 

“Earthquakes can happen anywhere,” Ben replied his tone now taking an unctuous bent.

“Ben!”  A voice shouted.  “Ben!”  Preston looked toward the voice to see Dr. Atkins, Ben’s faculty mentor, standing in the door of their laboratory in a white lab coat, motioning him back inside.  Most faculty advisors were fairly hands off, Preston’s most of all, but Dr. Atkins was rumored to micromanage his students, to the point of literally standing over their shoulders.

“See you later, Carrie,” Ben said, all but ignoring Preston.

“You want to head down to Church Street for some coffee?” Carrie asked Preston.  Preston was beside himself with glee, his accident in the lab all but forgotten.  He’d gone with Carrie to get coffee before, but it didn’t happen very often.

“Of course,” Preston replied.

A half hour later Preston and Carrie walked into one of the many coffee shops populating downtown Burlington.  The smell of coffee hung heavy in the air, its aroma relaxing, and exhilarating.  Preston ordered a dark roast, in awe of the sheer variety of beans displayed in glass faced bins behind the counter.  They didn’t have too many of these boutique coffee shops in the Midwest.  Starbucks was the coffee shop haut monde where he came from.

An attractive barista with shoulder length hair, straight and dyed black, with strikingly contrasting white skin and pale blue eyes, handed him his coffee.  He looked around for a seat.  There were none available in the crowded sitting area.  Standing room only. 

Preston frowned, suddenly disgusted, a feeling of frustrated anger nipping at his core, threatening to build to full-fledged rage.

“If I hear one more shaggy headed hippy waxing philosophical about the benevolence of humanity, I might have to kill someone to prove them wrong,” Preston said under his breath, Carrie’s presence keeping him in check.  While he appreciated the ragamuffin way, the judgmental and zealous beings surrounding him were anything but carefree.  Now they were taking up all the seats.

“Look at that guy over there,” Carrie said, joining him, taking a sip from her off white cardboard coffee cup, a big green recycling symbol adorning its side.

Preston tore his eyes away from Carrie’s blond hair and athletic jaw line.  Theirs had been a professional relationship since Preston had moved to Burlington two years before for graduate school, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t dream for more. 

A young hippy in his late teens or early twenties, sporting dirty blond dreadlocks and a grateful dead t-shirt, was gesticulating madly with his hands.  Through the din of patrons discussing the latest trends in subjects ranging from muscle physiology to graphic novels, Preston was able to catch some of the man’s ramblings.

“What?  What?  You want drilling in the Artic?  There’s nothing oil can do that hemp can’t!  You can make plastic out of it.  You can run your cars on it.” 

Preston smiled, the hippy’s discomfit somehow calming him.

“He’s right, you know.  You can do about anything with weed,” Carrie said. 

Preston nodded.  He would pretty much agree with anything Carrie said.

A sudden change in air pressure caused Preston’s breath to catch in his throat.  Or maybe it was a heart palpitation?  He wondered.  It was disconcerting, like that time in high school he had an erratic heart beat and thought he was having a heart attack.  The coffee shop became suddenly silent, and Preston realized the other patrons had felt it too.  People looked at each other questioningly. Most had an alarmed look in their eye.  After a couple of seconds, when nothing further happened, threads of conversation began to pick back up.

“Did you feel that?” Carrie asked.

“Yeah.  Thought I was having a heart attack for a second.”

“What do you suppose it was?”

“No idea.”

“When I was a kid, a gas main exploded across town.  It sort of felt like that.  Maybe the earthquake, or whatever it was, knocked something loose in a gas line, and it exploded.”

“Maybe,” Preston said.  Her explanation sounded as good as anything.  “Maybe if we drive around we can see some smoke or something.”  If nothing else, it would be a good opportunity to get some quality time with her, however implausible an eruption of romantic spirits might be.

“Why not.  My experiment has to run for another two hours anyway.”

Preston nodded.  He knew he was safely ensconced with Carrie in the friend zone, but sometimes luck and the unlikely happen.  Deep down, Preston knew he would never make a move.  He was too skinny, with thinning, almost wispy brown hair.  He was far from tall, exactly average height.  Years of chess club and scientific pursuits had left him bereft of any confidence with women.  One could always dream, though.  Especially with a girl like Carrie, who was into science herself and might have a greater affinity for someone of his background.

The pair walked to the parking garage along Church Street and took the stairs to the top floor, where Preston had parked his old 2004 silver Toyota Camry.  It was pushing 200,000 miles, but it still ran.  Many of the graduate students drove worse, and some didn’t even have cars, so Preston couldn’t complain.

As Preston unlocked his car, he took a second to look out across Burlington.  A city ordinance limited the height of buildings downtown, allowing him a vista across the city’s rooftops, coursing down to Lake Champlain.  Here and there a church steeple or vaulted roof broke the outline of square buildings and flat rooftops.  During late March it was perpetually overcast, but at the moment, rays of sun were penetrating thick gray clouds, sparkling light across the surface of the lake like a penlight dancing across a dark jewel.  To the east Preston saw the Green Mountains, and beyond, the lake.  Fading into the western horizon were the Adirondacks.   

“I never get tired of the view from here,” Carrie said, following Preston’s gaze across the lake.

Preston nodded, opening her door. 

Five minutes later they were on their way down route 7 to Shelbourne, listening to Dave Matthews on Preston’s MP3 player.  Most cars had MP3 players as standard these days, but Preston’s old car required an adapter to play digital files through the stock sound system.  He lamented not having a new car, but his Camry was better than nothing.

“See anything?” Preston asked, craning his neck from side to side while trying to keep an eye on the road.  With the exception of lighter than normal traffic, everything appeared to be normal. 

“Not yet.  Maybe we should cut over to South Burlington and head toward Williston.”

“Sounds good,” Preston said.  He was going wherever Carrie wanted to go.

Preston suddenly realized there was an abnormally high number of cars pulling onto the shoulder of the road, as sometimes happens during a heavy downpour.  Only, there was no rain. He had flashbacks to September 11^th, 2001.  He’d been a high school senior, skipping school to hang out with some friends when the planes hit.  Everyone had been glued to the radio, going so far as to pull off the road, like he was seeing now.

“Let’s check the radio,” he said, unplugging his MP3 player and switching over to live airwaves.

“…hit somewhere in Northern Colorado.  Communications are down and there are no concrete reports of casualties, but experts estimate it is the worst single disaster in terms of human deaths and economic impact since the dawn of recorded time.”

“What are they talking about?” Carrie asked, her voice filled with concern. 

“No idea,” Preston replied, pulling over into a supermarket parking lot.  He noticed several other people sitting in their cars.  Two or three were crying.  This was for real, whatever it was.  No War of the Worlds false alarm. Not in this day in age.  

Preston’s thoughts pulsed rapid fire as he tried to process what he heard as the DJ droned on about potential casualties and insignificant speculation, filling airtime until more information was available.  A nuclear bomb?  A terrorist attack?  But why would terrorists strike in the Midwest?  An accidental nuclear detonation?  The nuclear arsenal was aging, Preston knew, but there were plenty of safeguards.

He changed the station.

“…estimated to be several times the power of the Tunguska event, which was itself approximately a thousand Hiroshima’s.”

“A nuclear bomb?” Carrie asked.

“Maybe, but the Tunguska event was an asteroid or comet or something.”

They continued listening.

“For those of you just tuning in, we have Dr. Martin from Penn State on the line.  Dr. Martin, can you tell us why we didn’t get any advanced warning?  How is it possible this day in age for a comet of this magnitude to strike anywhere on Earth without someone knowing?”

“That’s a good question, Jim.  With the advent of NASA’s Near Earth Object program, I would say the probability this object, which was probably an asteroid of some sort, could hit the Earth without warning is approaching zero.”

“So you’re saying the government probably knew?” The DJ asked, his voice excited with the possibility of a conspiracy.

“I can’t say what the government did or did not know.  It’s possible something could slip through NEO’s monitoring net, but it’s extremely unlikely.  That’s all I want to say about that.”

“Okay, well you mentioned this thing was probably an asteroid.  What else can you tell me about that?”

At least it’s not terrorists, Preston thought.  Visions of a nuclear mushroom cloud were replaced with a streaking fireball through the sky before impacting with the earth in a maelstrom of fire and brimstone and death.  Could this be worse than a terrorist attack? Preston wondered. 

“Until we get more data, it’s difficult to say.  There should be several University observatories releasing data within hours.”

Dr. Martin said data with the long A sound.  Maybe it was an artifact of his Midwestern upbringing, but Preston always hated it when people said it like that.  Worse yet was when they used the long A and plural, “These data,” sounding like pretentious pricks. 

“What can we expect from this impact in terms of casualties?”

“Again, without more data, it’s impossible to say.  Initial reports indicate the impact site was just north of Cheyenne, Wyoming.  Anyone within miles-“

“How many miles?”

“Again, it’s impossible to say without more data,” Dr. Martin said, sounding agitated at being interrupted, “but probably ten to fifteen miles.  Everyone within that range would more or less be killed instantly.”

“Even if they were in, say a basement?”

“The shockwaves would most likely collapse the walls of residentially reinforced concrete basements.”

“Wow.  We’re talking the potential of hundreds of thousands of people.”  The radio was silent for a moment, a mortal sin for a DJ under most circumstances, but in light of the current situation, it seemed to give greater realism to an even that had occurred almost two thousand miles away.

“Beyond the initial impact radius, superheated air would cause fires, and shockwaves would cause severe earthquakes.  These would have probably extended to Denver and perhaps Salt Lake City.”

“Jane,” the DJ said, talking to his on-air producer. “Can you see if you can get ahold of anything coming out of Denver or Salt Lake City?”

“I’m already on it,” Jane said.

“So the earthquake we felt this morning was probably from the impact?  Even so far away?”

“No doubt.  Seismographs across the globe will register the impact.”

“Wow.  What kind of time frame are we talking about until rescuers can go to the impact site and assess things?  You mentioned fires.  Will there be radiation?”

“There shouldn’t be any radiation.  It’s possible there might be, depending on the composition of the asteroid, but I’m guessing it was primarily composed of iron, without any radioactive elements.  We may have bigger problems than just the initial effects of the impact, however.”

“What do you mean?  This is devastating, but it could have been worse.  If this had hit in a more populated area like the Northeastern United States or Europe…” The DJ let his words trail off, letting his listeners draw their own conclusions.

“No doubt, but now the after effects will be potentially more devastating than the initial impact.  Within seventy two hours, a layer of particulate will cover the upper atmosphere, impeding the sun’s rays and cooling the Earth.”

“Would this be so bad?  We’ve been hearing about global warming for years now.”

“The danger is a nuclear winter scenario, where we not only have cool temperatures, but also massive crop failures due to a blockage of solar radiation, the energy plants use to grow.  This would cause a worldwide food shortage and civil unrest.”

“Realistically, though, what is the danger of this seemingly worst case scenario?”

“Again, I need more data, but based on initial reports, several hundred times more ash than was released by Mount St. Helens will probably enter the atmosphere.  It could be as long as three years before enough particulate clears the air to allow for sufficient crop production.  By then, tens or even hundreds of millions could be dead from starvation and the effects of civil unrest.”

Preston’s hands fell from their resting position on the steering wheel into his lap.  He sat there, his face slack.  Numb.  Surely this wasn’t real.  Or at least it had to be exaggerated.  It was probably a small meteorite, being sensationalized in the media.  But an impact of the magnitude being described would explain the earlier quake he felt in the lab.  The weird displacement of air they’d felt earlier in the coffee shop could have been overpressure from the impact.  No, Preston realized, to feel the direct effects so far away meant it had to be every bit as powerful as Dr. whatever-his-name-was said.

“Can this be real?” Carrie said, echoing his thoughts.  She was sitting there, blanched and drawn into herself, hugging her knees with crossed arms.

“I think we have to assume it is,” Preston replied.  His mind began to churn, thinking about his next step.  At least his experiments could be put on hold.  Dr. Johnson, his advisor, wouldn’t be expecting much work this week, not after this.

“Take me home,” Carrie said, dejectedly.  “I just want to go home right now.”

The term civil unrest triggered memories of an estranged uncle from Preston’s distant childhood.  Uncle Johnny, a Vietnam veteran who had moved out West, to Montana or someplace, and became a survivalist, using his pension to stockpile guns and canned goods against Armageddon.  Before Preston’s mother had decided Uncle Johnny was too far lost to extremism and banned him from seeing his nephews, Uncle Johnny had visited once a year or so, reveling Preston and his younger brother with tales of Armageddon.

“You want some food, you’re going to have to kill someone for it,” Uncle Johnny had said.  “If you have some food, people might kill you for it.  It will be about survival.  Things will revert to the Stone Age. Those with guns and food will be alright.  Everyone else will have to scrape and fight in disease and filth just to survive.”

At the time, Uncle Johnny’s stories scared and fascinated him in about equal measure, until he grew old enough to see the vast resources and seemingly infallible infrastructure of the US, and lost his fear of the world descending into chaos.  Now, though, Uncle Johnny’s stories came rushing back.

Preston’s shock and lethargy melted away.  He knew exactly what needed to be done, at least in the short term.

“We need to buy groceries,” he said.

“Just take me home,” Carrie replied, tears welling up in her eyes.  She was messing around with her cell phone, frantically pounding the keys with her fingers.  “I can’t get through to my parents.  My cell is not working.  I want to try to e-mail them.”

“I’d give you mine to try, but I’m out of battery.”

Carrie said nothing as the tears started to flow.

Trying to distract her from any demoralizing thoughts, Preston asked, “Where do your parents live?”

“California.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine.  That’s far enough away from Wyoming.  I’ll take you home, but first we need to stock up.  If this is as serious as they say, food shipments might be disrupted.”  Preston thought Carrie might argue, but she just shook her head, acquiescing. 

They got out of the car and walked through the automatic doors of the grocery store.  Everything was quiet and subdued.  A smell of fresh fruit from the produce section and a tang from bags of fertilizer stacked by the front door filled the air.  The cashiers were listening intently to a newscast on the flat screen television mounted by the customer service counter.  It was turned up as loud as the volume would go, the sound from the small speakers coming out tinny and flat.

“We have just received word the President will be making an address at five o’clock,” an anchor announced.  Preston checked his watch.  Three thirty.  They still had some time.

“If a comet as big as Dr. whatever-his-name-was really hit the United States, and there is a nuclear winter, we should buy food while we can,” Preston whispered to Carrie, wrestling a plastic red cart off the end of a stack lined up just inside the door.

Carrie nodded, still dazed, her cheeks tear stained. 

“How much money do you have on your credit cards?” Preston asked. 

“I don’t know.  Several thousand, I guess.  My parents take care of it.  I’ve never had to worry about it.”

Of course, Preston thought.  A rich girl from California.  Must be nice.  Preston figured he had a couple of thousand in credit, plus another five hundred in his bank account, although four fifty of that was earmarked to pay rent.

“Who knows how much longer stores will accept credit cards, and after that, how much longer they will stay open,” Preston said.  Uncle Johnny’s stories and advice rang out across two decades.

“I doubt if it will be that bad,” Carrie said.

“Maybe.  But there’s no harm in being prepared.  Who knows what might happen after the presidential address.”

Carrie just nodded.

Preston pushed the cart through the produce section, grabbing a bag of apples and oranges, but in general going light on the fresh stuff.  When they came to the dried fruits, he emptied the shelves into the cart with a scoop of his arm.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Preston said.  There was something satisfying about clearing a shelf.

“Do you really need so much?” Carrie asked.  “I’m not paying for all that.”

That gave Preston pause.   For the first time he felt a bit of aggravation at Carrie’s insistence on being a sad Sally.  Maybe she was right, and he was going overboard, but if Uncle Johnny’s prophetic lessons held true and there was true civil unrest, the cost for just one bag of dried apples or cranberries would be a lot more than digital bytes from an online credit account.  After a moment, though, he said, “No problem.  Pay for what you want.  I’ll take care of the rest.”

Next up was the dried grains aisle.   As a complete food for doomsday, brown rice was best.  It could be easily stored and transported, and it contained a bit more protein than white rice as well as valuable vitamins, such as niacin and thiamin.  And it was cheap.  Preston slid a couple of twenty five pound bags under the cart, and loaded a couple more into the top.

Carrie followed along lethargically, periodically messing with her cell phone, trying to send out texts and make calls.  Ten minutes ago, somewhere in the back of his mind, Preston had ideas of being a hero in Carrie’s eyes by taking action and having food when others struggled, but now he was beginning to have second thoughts.  Carrie wasn’t responding in a positive manner to his preparations.  With her negative attitude she might even end up being a liability.  She also wasn’t nearly as pretty in this state.  His visions of them riding out the apocalypse together began to seem less appetizing. 

She’s just worried about her parents, Preston thought, trying to rationalize her actions.  She was still hot.  There was still hope. 

Preston forced himself to stop obsessing over Carrie and focus on the current task.

What else?  He asked himself, pausing at the end of an aisle, thinking. 

“After a few months, coffee will be like gold,” Uncle Johnny’s voice harkened through the decades, giving Preston direction. 

Preston walked along the end of the aisles, looking up at the white letter boards with big black block letters above each aisle until he found the one listing coffee.  He made his way to the canisters of ground cheap stuff and bags of beans.

“Coffee?” Carrie asked, still following from behind, and still trying in vain to get her cell phone to work.

“It will be a valuable trade good when people began to run out.”

“Really?” Carrie said, her voice dripping with skepticism that quickly morphed into a smile.

Glad to see her smile, Preston asked, “What’s so funny?”

“This is turning into the worst day ever, and all you can think about is getting coffee.”

Preston really didn’t see the humor in her statement, but nodded anyway, hoping to keep her from falling back into a crying jag.

“You’re really much prettier when you smile,” Preston said, not knowing from where he was drawing his courage to speak so audaciously to a woman.  Today was an anomaly, with the comet strike.  Normal rules, including his normal introversion, need not apply.  He didn’t even worry she would scowl at him like most women did when he tried flirting.  When it came to women, he was so used to getting his head pounded, like a whack o’ mole, he had stopped sticking it up.

Carrie smiled again, and Preston felt on top of the world, his earlier feelings of acrimony toward her instantly forgotten.

“We should get some water,” Preston said, adding some gallon jugs of distilled water into the rapidly filling cart.  Preston had to put his back into it to get it moving again. 

On their way to the checkout, they passed the household goods section.  Included amongst the measuring cups, mixing bowls, potato mashers, and small cutting boards were several rows of inexpensive kitchen knives in clear plastic packaging hanging on display hooks.  Preston added several to the cart.

“What do we need those for?” Carrie asked.  Her amiability of a moment before appeared to have been temporary, and she appeared to be on the verge of lapsing back into melancholy. 

“You never know,” Preston said, hoping her mood remained stable.  The knives would have plenty of uses in a worst case scenario.  They were cheap steel, but they were still steel. 

“Stocking up?” The checkout lady said, tearing her eyes away from the television, as they pulled up to the counter with their heaping cart.  She looked about as bad as Carrie, with tear stained cheeks and red rimmed eyes.  No new information appeared to be coming from the broadcast, just more speculation and regurgitated news.

“Might as well,” Preston said, pulling out his credit card.  He half hoped to see Carrie dig for her plastic, but she just stood there, still trying to get her phone to work.  Talking about a dog that don’t hunt, Preston thought.

“That’s probably a good idea,” she said, scanning their selections.  

She struggled with the bags of rice, barely able to lift them past the scanner.

“We have two more underneath,” Preston said.  She punched a button and they were added to the tab.

“We have breaking news!” A voice said from the television.  Everyone looked to the screen. 

The checkout lady paused her scanning, holding a can of coffee like a child’s teddy bear.

Preston began loading the cart with their purchases, keeping one eye on the television.

“We have footage from KBBL, our sister station out of Denver.” 

A shaky home video filled the screen.  There was no sound, but the reporter narrated over visuals of toppled buildings and people standing around stunned, blackened with dust.  In the background, occasional bright red and blue flashes from police and rescue vehicles were visible.  Greyish white dust, or maybe ash, floated through the air, covering everything with a thin layer.

“My God, this is devastation,” the reported said, in shock.  “We had reports of widespread casualties, but as you can see, this is destruction beyond comprehension.”  The reported paused for a second, then continued, “Despite a crippled infrastructure, rescue workers are doing their best to save people from the wreckage.   We have reports that the National Guard has been mobilized, and we expect the President to announce FEMA aid is en route.  Stay tuned for the President’s address at five.”

The reporter continued to talk, and there was some back and forth dialogue with the anchors, but it was more or less the same information being conveyed over and over, using different words.

Preston heard a choking sound, and turned to see Carrie crying again.  He didn’t know what to say to console her.  After seeing the footage, it appeared things were worse than he imagined.  All those buildings, collapsed like a petulant child’s toys, and Denver was a couple hundred miles from the estimated impact zone.  No telling how bad things were closer to ground zero.

Keeping one eye on the screen, the cashier finally managed to finish scanning the order.

“That will be seven fifty five, forty three,” she said.

Preston handed over his credit card, praying he had enough to cover the purchases.  The cashier swiped the card.  Preston held his breath until the receipt printed out, indicating the charge was approved.  Preston signed the slip and helped load his purchases back into the cart.

“I’m going to stop at the ATM machine,” Preston said to Carrie on the way out.  He made the maximum withdrawal his bank permitted, five hundred per day.  Carrie didn’t bother taking out any cash, and with her fragile emotional state, Preston didn’t feel like pushing her.  How well did he really know her, after all?  Odds were, once he dropped her off at home, he wouldn’t be seeing much of her again, except maybe at school, if the school continued to operate.   After seeing Denver, Preston was banking on the school to close down for a few days, but who know.

“Maybe we should stop by the sporting goods store,” Preston said. 

“Just take me home,” Carrie replied, firmly.  Now that they were back in the car, she was like a horse that smelled water after coming in from the desert.  Preston really wanted to go while the going was good, but he didn’t want press Carrie.  The store would probably be open tomorrow.  Uncle Johnny’s ghost would have to be happy with his grocery store run.

“No problem.  Just let me stop and get gas.” 

Despite the relatively deserted streets, there was a line at the gas station.  Carrie didn’t look happy, but she wasn’t overtly complaining.  Yet.  Preston hoped the wait was short. 

More cars began to pile in behind him.  An uncomfortable hollowness began to gnaw at Preston’s gut.  He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong, but while stopping at the grocery store was more or less a whim to excise some inner demon planted by Uncle Johnny, the demand at the gas station was tangible evidence of a potential shortage. 

“Here, take the wheel,” Preston said, shifting the car into park and hopping out before Carrie had time to protest.  Preston went inside.  He found what he was looking for in a back isle of the shopette.  Red plastic gas containers.  He filled his hands with five gallon containers, as many as he could carry.  By holding the handles, he managed three in each hand and one under his left arm.

“Not a bad idea,” A man with a tattooed forearm and grey hair said.  Preston just nodded and headed for the cashier, using his credit card again, going through the whole breath holding exercise, buoyed somewhat by the cash in his pocket if the plastic was denied.  The credit card went through, and Preston signed the slip.

“You can’t take the last ones!” Preston heard a man say.  He turned toward the voice and saw three men back by the gas containers.  A man with long brown stringy hair and a black t-shirt was yelling at the grey haired man with the tattoo. 

“First come first serve,” the man with the tattooed forearm said, three cans gripped in each hand.  Stringy hair reached in and jerked a gas can away, causing the other two to clatter to the ground.  The grey haired tattooed man dropped the three remaining cans and pushed stringy hair, causing him to trip and crash to the ground.  The third man, a middle aged clean cut sap with short brown hair and a yellow polo shirt, perhaps an off duty accountant, Preston thought, grabbed one of the cans and headed for the cashier.  Stringy hair saw him take the container and punched him in the jaw.  As the cashier started yelling for the men to stop, Preston ran out the door, before stringy hair saw his abundance of riches.

Outside, Preston quickly threw his cans in the trunk and slammed it shut, looking around.  No one seemed to give him a second thought. 

In the distance, sirens sounded.  Perhaps the cashier had called the police, or perhaps they were en route to another disturbance, but somehow the sirens were simultaneously comforting and ominous. 

A couple of minutes later, after Preston had reassumed the driver’s seat, grey hair came outside, carrying two gas containers.  Shadows were lengthening, allowing Preston to keep his face hidden within the car.  A minute later the stringy hair man followed with two cans of his own.  Preston could only assume the accountant would be next, and he was, carrying two of the red containers.  Apparently they’d decided to share, no doubt under the threat of arrest.

The radio droned on, conveying more of less the same information over and over, trying to rehash it with new twists to keep listeners from changing stations.  Updated tallies of the estimated dead and dying and a countdown to the presidential address seemed to be the news staples.

Ten minutes later and Preston took his position at the pump.  He ran his card through the reader, half expecting it to be declined, but like the previous times, it was accepted.  This was the first time he’d bothered to fill up the tank in a year or two.  He was usually putting in gas ten and twenty dollars at a time.  While the tank was filling, he opened the trunk and unscrewed the caps to the plastic containers.  After the scuffle inside, he was glad the lip of his trunk hid the cans.

“Alright, let’s get you home,” Preston said to Carrie, getting back in the car after filling up the tank and gas containers.

Carrie just nodded.

Preston glanced at his watch.  Only ten minutes to the address.  He would need to hurry to drop Carrie off in time to get back to his squalid studio downtown. 

“Where do you live?” Preston asked.

“Follow South Willard and turn right on Maple,” Carrie said.  Preston nodded.   After two years in Burlington, he knew the area well.

Five minutes later and Carrie told him to stop in front of a large house with a stained glass window.  Once upon a time, the place was a mansion, probably for a wealthy business man, but was now somewhat dilapidated and divided into several apartments.

“You want to come in and watch the Presidential address?” Carrie asked pleasantly, surprising Preston both with the invitation and her quick change in demeanor. 

“Might as well,” Preston said, her early surliness once again forgotten.

“Just pull in there,” Carrie said pointing down a driveway toward a parking area in the rear of the house.

Preston parked and followed Carrie inside.

As Carrie unlocked the door, she said, “I have a couple of roommates.”

Preston nodded, a little nervous at being asked inside, not sure if the gesture was perfunctory, friendly, or perhaps something more.

The door opened to a small entryway with old hardwood floors, beyond which a kitchen and living room area was visible.  Preston could see flickering from a TV coming from the living room. 

Carrie led him through the kitchen to the living room.  Two couches covered in ratty blankets and an old yellow recliner faced a brand new 55 inch LED television. 

“These are my two roommates.  Anna and Susan,” Carrie said, introducing Preston to two young women, almost as pretty as Carrie, sitting on the couches.  They barely nodded, glued to the screen.  It looked like they had been crying.

Carrie plopped down on the couch next to Anna.  Preston took the empty chair, not sure if he was disappointed or relieved to be sitting by himself.

“Just in time,” Anna said, not taking her eyes from the television.

A shot of a solemn looking President came on the screen from his familiar desk in the oval office, flanked by the United States flag and the flag displaying the presidential seal.

Carrie’s living room was utterly silent with suspense as the four waited for the President to begin talking. 

Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, Preston realized he was holding his breath.  

“My fellow Americans,” the President began.