Masks

I look to the South. Mountains and desert surround the urban landscape. The sky seems dark though it is midday. A roaring drone of pistons and props rises to my ears. My son, not yet two, looks left then right, craning his head to find the source but I have strapped him in the backseat of the car limiting his view. I move fast but can’t help to look myself. Massive planes, olive drab and low to the ground, fly in formation a mile from where I stand. The US Air Force insignia is on the crafts’ tail fins. I can clearly see the large crates and boxes being dropped from the rear hatches. Their parachutes open up, cushioning the impact with the ground, street, buildings, or cars. I break my gaze and jump into the driver’s seat and look back at my son. My heart is pounding and my breath is tight. I feel on the edge of tears and seeing his eyes and face, showing no signs of concern, give me no comfort. We drive.

A few minutes pass. We weave through streets. We come to one of the crates, its parachute caught on a traffic light and rippling with the wind. The sounds of the American planes have gone from earshot. Many have gathered around, taking the contents of the freight dropped from above. I expect provisions, food rations, and fresh water. I pull the car over, intending to grab what I can. The crowd is still small and I have no trouble making my way through them. The boxes, each about twice the size of a shoebox, are labeled simply “for two.” I grab two boxes, I am heading home to my wife, the third in our group. I lay the boxes on the front seat and take another look at my son who is looking at the crowd, his pacifier in his mouth. I think, it’s probably time to start weaning him off his pacifier. He has grown up so fast. Sirens erupt, like those for a tornado. I didn’t know we had sirens in this desert city. My guess is they are a relic of the Cold War when nuclear threats seemed possible and drills were held with sirens like these. They must have laid quiet for decades, their operators relieved to find them still working despite the age of decay and nonuse. My heart leaps again, a thick pain in my chest. Those around the car and crate rush now like roaches from a bright light, grabbing what they can and running indoors or to vehicles. I turn back to the plain gray boxes on the seat beside me and tear one open. In the box are only three items. One is a thin paper instruction manual. The other two are large black identical objects encased in plastic wrap. I recognize them immediately. I rip one open. The strong smell of new plastic fills my nose. The object’s lifeless clear orbs of plexiglass look at me blankly.

One of the siren’s warning wails cracks, sputters, and dies. Its sound drops. A new roar of planes high overhead and growing, reaches my ears. High altitude bombers. I think to myself. Will I be able to reach my wife in time? And, will a gas mask fit on a toddler?