Conor Ferring

Firewall

The only sound he recognizes beyond his strained breathing is the rapid thudding of his family's feet against the dirt. He scans the sky above, repeating to himself that it only passes overhead once every twenty minutes. With his son in his arms, his legs grow weak, but he presses on, as fast as his body can take him. The entire family obsessively keeps their eyes on the purple-orange afternoon sky, like field mice keeping watch for a bird of prey. They know that if they saw it, it would be far too late. They are in the direct path of the angel of death.