No Promises

It was like Heaven, Aaron thought.

Still, fear made his stomach clench painfully.

I never should have promised. What was I thinking? What if this doesn't work out?

Dale had originated the plans for the communities, back in the days when they'd lived in the city and worked in architecture. Aaron had never been particularly political, but he could see the writing on the wall as well as Dale; the country would destroy itself from the inside.

The money; the planning; the successes and failures—they had all taken a toll. Aaron, now just forty-five, ran fingers through snow-white hair.

His was one of four groups.

Dale's group was further southeast, deep in the forest but away from the foothills where winter lingered an extra month, cutting into the growing season. His group had a small herd of cattle, and had begun experimenting with making cheese. They had good luck with corn and other vegetables.

There were other groups to the east and west, and they had weather and soil conditions that dictated their contributions to the collective.

The group in the west had horses. They had a small orchard and were nurturing citrus-bearing trees along with apple, peach and pear trees.

The group in the east raised pigs and chickens, supplying fresh meat.

All the groups had small gardens and hunted to keep their own communities supplied, but all the Elders agreed that cooperation, trade and sharing amongst the groups should be encouraged.

He surveyed the wheat field, planted this year. They had grown wheat before, but on a much smaller scale. The hope for this crop was that there would be enough to supply their group, with plenty left over for trade.

The rains had been sparse, though, and Aaron was worried.

He stared at the waving grains. He shook a finger at the field:

"Don't die!"

Even as he spoke, he was aware of this: he wanted it to sound commanding. Instead, it sounded like exactly what it was.

Begging.

*~*

The past was always present for Aaron. There was no forgetting how this had come to be.

There had been a plan for the exodus of the survival groups, but it was disrupted into chaos when Dale's daughter and her children didn't show up for the Independence Day celebration.

Dale had sent Mortimer out to the base to check on them, and discovered that the base had been overtaken by Guerilla militia.

Mort and his crew quickly acertained that there were hostages and returned to the city to put together a group to go in and rescue them.

At that point, Dale had ordered Aaron to start contacting their people and get them out of the city and surrounding areas as quickly as possible.

He'd wanted to go with Mort, but orders were orders. In the end, he wasn't sorry to have missed that action.

It had not been pretty.

The rescue had gone as well as could be expected, but there were losses, including Dale's daughter. His granddaughters were returned to him, and to his wife by Mort and his son-in-law, Vance.

Until it all went to hell, Aaron hadn't truly believed the move to the compounds would ever be necessary. Ever pragmatic, he'd been clinging to the hope that disaster would somehow be diverted. Even as he designed and built, even as he planned and packed, Aaron hoped.

But The End came.

And when it did, he reflected that everyone should have known it would.

Once underground, it was some time before they were made aware of the fact that they'd missed the first explosions in the city by hours. If not for the HAM radio set-ups, it might have been months before the groups would have been able to get in touch with each other.

Dale was amazingly adept at planning, Aaron reflected.

*~*

Now the wheat was high and green, and just a little rain would bring it to maturity. It wouldn't take much; the growing season wouldn't last much longer, and Aaron looked forward to a successful harvest.

But I shouldn't have promised.

Getting all his ducks in a row didn't insure that those ducks would lay eggs. Like every farmer before him, he was at the mercy of the elements.

"There will be rain, if God wills it," Aaron whispered, quoting his father's favorite saying. The old man uttered the phrase whenever any situation was uncertain. Aaron could not recall a time, ever, when his Dad had said it and it actually related to rain. This realization caused him to bark a small, ironic laugh.

He finally dismounted from his bicycle. He sat in the middle of the field, surrounded by waving green stalks of wheat. He inhaled the smell of fertile earth and sighed.

His fingers brushed the heart-shaped locket he'd worn around his neck since his Maggie had gone missing in the exodus. She'd given it to him when he kissed her goodbye before leading the convoy away from their house. "I'll see you soon," he'd told her. "I promise."

She was supposed to be right behind him, driving their SUV.

She never arrived.

Aaron still hoped to find her; to understand what had happened; to know, at last, where things had gone wrong.

He tucked the locket under the collar of his shirt and bit his lower lip. He didn't bother to brush away the tear that made its way from the corner of his eye, sliding down to join the locket at his throat.

Earlier this year, as his group planted, he'd said, "This will be a beautiful crop. I promise."

Never promise. Never. You foolish man.

"Well," he said, raising his arms above his head and spreading his hands in supplication, "I promise nothing, Universe. I promise nothing."

He lay back and stared at the many formations of the clouds.

He added, "But I do hope..."

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