Friday Snippet: Baseball at World's End

After trying to get the Snippets code to work all day, I sort of wanted to punch it in the face; I say thankee sai to Meryl for showing me how to get the autolinks to work. But as far as the snippet goes, here is the first of the post-apocalyptic-chick-lit. Any ideas for a title?

Copyrighted, do not reproduce, material liable to change. You know. Etc.

On the morning before the nuclear bomb went off over Columbia, Dell called in sick to her office. This was her ritual, every autumn, just before the first serious frost. The World Series was done and Dell and Daniel and the neighborhood boys would troop out to bid goodbye to the season.

With her voice still thick with sleep, it wasn’t difficult to convince the secretary of her sniffles or the gravel in her voice. When the girl, some intern they’d picked up from Mizzou, repeated the message and hung up, Dell bounded out of bed. Throwing on jeans, long sleeves and a jersey, she stumbled into her shoes. As she passed Corleone asleep on the counter, she ruffled the heavy tabby’s ears and tossed last night’s leftover fish into his bowl.

Ducking around the small herd of Tailor children as she stepped out the door, Dell called good morning with a glare. The oldest two swallowed snickers, having delighted in stomping on the floor above her room just before the alarm. Before their mother could ask her to watch the unruly brood, Dell swung into the stairwell. She breathed deep, tasting the frost. The chill snatched the last warmth of bed. As she stepped out into the back alley lot, she saw Daniel wave from across the green. Tossing her the catcher’s mask and shin guards, he slung his bat over his shoulder.

“Couldn’t find first,” he said, scratching at the blue shadow of his beard.

“What?” She smirked, fitting the mask over her face and flexing her fingers in her glove. He kicked the bag at his feet and home, second and third, a few mitts and a tattered baseball rolled out into the sparse grass.

That was when she saw it. Like a flare of sunlight, like dawn, except in the north of the city. Dell shielded her eyes, pushing the mask back. Daniel stared up at the sky, still clutching his bat. Mrs. Tailor paused on her balcony, a sheet draped her arm, her youngest clutched against her. A heavy shadow fell over the back alley lot. The city flinched, bleached white.

Dell gasped. The heat seared past them, blowing them back. She tasted dust and ash and blood. The glass walls of skyscrapers and apartment rises rippled, exploded, filling the air with what looked like starshine. The dew sighed into steam.

She felt herself screaming but she couldn’t hear, so it was hard to be sure. Silence roared through the city. Cars and buildings caved and crumbled. And then God exhaled. Sound thundered over them, the force crushing them flat. The grass hissed and bowed low.

Dell O’Sullivan lifted her eyes and saw the slow roll of smoke. The blast hurled the clouds back and spewed lightning in rusted forks. The sky seethed mercury gray. In fire and smoke, the ringed mushroom cloud shivered the color of boiled blood and copper.

So say we all.
Bri