At first, it was almost like a camping trip.  They sat together in lawn chairs outside the trailer.  Exccept for the occasional call of a jay, the click of Margo's knitting needles and the rustle of the pages of Alan's book, the golden October afternoon was silent.

Once in awhile, Alan would pause in his reading, reach down to touch the Winchester rifle beside his chair and scan with narrowed eyes the edge of underbrush that grew to within fifty feet of the trailer.

"I should have chosen a clearer spot," he said. "It's too easy to get up close here."

Margo flicked a glance at him.  There was a muscle twitching along his jaw line.  Lines had appeared from his nose to the corners of his mouth.  He looked ill - and frightened.  She looked down again at her knitting.  The steady click of the needles was a soothing release of the relentless pressure building in her chest.  Her memory went back three years to a series of slide show pictures in her mind.

There was Alan, dear and familiar, pushing his blond and thinning hair back as he talked and talked about war, anarchy, economic collapse.  It was sure to come, he said, and only the stupid ones wouldn't be ready for it.  And then she pictured their little house, scenes from her secure life, the church bazaar, the friends in for dinner.  Arguments, so many of them, echoed in her memory.  She hadn't been able to accept this obsession, could not take Alan's survivalism seriously.  There were other scenes from last year.  Alan, telling her one night at dinner that he had purchased property over in McCann County - and that he was buying a trailer to put up there.  She woke one night to find the bed empty and discovered Alan, glassy-eyed in his study.  There were shiny red covered books spread out all over his desk. Marge could see one title,  How to make land mines. Wordlessly, she had turned away and gone back to bed - dismayed and frightened.

The knitting needles clicked on.  Alan sat back.  "What are you knitting, for God's sake?"  He put down the scarlet book and reached beside his chair for the Winchester.

"A baby sweater I started for the church bazaar."

He laughed bitterly.

"It's something to do," she said mildly, "And someone's baby could be cold this winter."

"Well, you can forget the church.  By now, it will be a pile of rubble and the members, except a few smart ones, will be dead from starvation or killed by looters.  And you won't be seeing anyone's baby from here on in."

Margo bit her lip and raised worried eyes to his.  "I worry about Ken and Betsy.  Ken is so fragile these days, he could never take care of the two of them.  And Betsy still hasn't gotten over that operation.  Maybe we should go into town and get them and bring them here."

Alan's mouth tightened with impatience.  "You still don't get it, do you?  Now look, we have enough to keep us - just us - alive until next summer when we can harvest a garden.  The storage shed is full of food and tools and seed and medicine and weapons - anything we could possibly need to survive up here.  Just pray nobody finds us."

"But..."

"Look, honey, you know I'm sorry as hell about Ken and Betsy.  But we can't feed everyone.  Where could we stop? There's got to be someone left to start a new world when this is over."

 "What qualifies us to start a new world?  And anyway, I'm not sure I want any part of a "new world" based on murder."  Marge watched two glowing maple leaves twirling as they fell into the silence.

"We're qualified because we'll be here.  We are survivors."

"And Ken?  With his brilliant mind, and Betsy who has done more good and generous things in our town than anyone ever has...they are not supposed to be survivors?"

"We've been over this too many times."  Alan picked up his book with a flourish and for a few minutes there was an uneasy peace.

Listen to this," said Alan, "When using a hatchet, the tendency to hack must be discouraged.  It is not necessary to lop off arms and legs.  The correct method is a one-two-approach.  One, a knock down blow, and two, severing the head."

"Why not just kill them with one of your many guns?" asked Margo wearily, "Or wouldn't that be as much fun?  You should see your face when you read these little tidbits on how to murder someone, gouging eyes and strangling.  You enjoy it, Alan!"

"Nonsense, of course I don't enjoy it.  But believe me, there could come a day when we run out of ammunition.  We'll still need to protect ourselves.  I've got an ax in the shed, you know.  It wouldn't hurt you to learn a few of these techniques.  It's your food they'll be after, too."

"I learned how to shoot your guns.  I will not learn how to chop off someone's head with an ax ."

Alan picked up the rifle, cradling it on his arm.  His eyes moved constantly, searching the underbrush.

Margo looked up from her knitting when she heard leaves rustling off to the left of the trailer.  There had been deer and racoon about.  But the dark figure of a man took shape against the bright leaves.

"Alan?  Margo?  That you?  Saw your car just off the road and thought you might be up here."

Margo jumped up, spilling the baby blue knitting into the crisp gold leaves.

"Mike!  Mike Howard.  What are you doing here?  Where's Nancy?"

"Nancy sent me to get you, if I could find you.  A bunch of us are in the old farmhouse down on Pikes Road.  Three of the kids are sick - could be the water.  Nancy figured you, being a nurse, would know what to do - maybe."

Mike walked slowly toward the trailer as he talked.  He needed a shave.  His eyes seemed to have sunk back into the sockets and his hands clenched and unclenched as he came closer.

"It's a trick."  Alan came around from behind the storage shed, still cradling his gun.  "Get into the trailer, Margo."  She heard the click of the safety.  "Who's with you, Mike?  Just stay right where you are.  Don't come any further."

"Cut that out, Alan." said Margo absently.  She walked calmly towards Mike.  "Have you been boiling the water you drink?"

But Mike was staring at Alan.  "Alan, what is it?  Damn it, man, we need Margo.  We all need each other more than ever before.  Come on, now, I'm not threatening you.  I'm Mike.  Remember me?  Poker? Handball?  the Elks?..."

Alan was muttering to himself, "Of course...you saw the car.  It was hidden until the leaves started to fall.  Got to go move it..."

"What's happening in town?  Have you heard anything?" Margo broke in.

Mike shook his head.  "This is really it.  That's all I know.  When we left there Wednesday, there was looting downtown.  You could hear gun fire...some fires, too.  The police aren't doing anything.  Matter of fact I saw Officer Carruthers and some of the others with the looters."

"Who's with you?" Alan shouted, "By God, anyone try to come up from the rear will get blown clear to hell.  I've got the whole woods full of land mines."

Margo turned.  "Wait there, Mike.  I've got some medicine in the trailer and some stuff to put in your water." She spoke over her shoulder as she moved toward the trailer. As she rummaged in the storage cabinets for kaopectate and chorine tablets, she heard the men's voices.  Alan's was quick and high, covering fright.  Mike's seemed slower and deeper, reasoning and concerned.  When the silence fell, she sank onto the gaucho, pulling aside the curtain to look at them from the trailer window.  It was at that moment that the shot came.  It wasn't even very loud - a little spit of sound - but it marked the beginning of the dreaded unthinkable reality for Margo.

There was a surprised shout from Mike and she heard him thrash through the golden autumn woods.  Alan, white and still, stared at the gun as though it had gone off by itself. Margo snatched up her jacket and the first aid kit and burst out the trailer door.

"You idiot," she screamed, "You've shot Mike.  Just pray you didn't kill him!"

"Margo, stay here.  It could be a trick."

"I'm going to see if I can help Mike and those kids."

She ran down the faint path that led to the woods road which Mike had followed from the highway.  When she reached the spot at the edge of the bushes where Mike had stood, she saw scarlet drops on the orange and yellow leaves still clinging to the bushes.  The trail was all too easy to follow.  Occasionally she called out, but there was only silence in the woods around her.

She heard Alan's voice, muffled by the trees calling, "Land mines!  Watch for the mines.  Be careful!"

Mike was lying at the end of the path.  He had tripped over a log and lay sprawled out on his face, lying across the narrow ruts of the woods road.  Margo knelt beside him, tugging at his blood soaked jacket to turn him over.  He was a big man and a heavy dead weight.  She saw at once that it was already too late for her to help.  There was no pulse when she picked up his limp hand.  Impulsively, she put her hand on his shoulder, grieving for him, for Nancy, for herself and the whole stricken world.  There was something hard under her hand and when she lifted the heavy plaid jacket, she discovered a small hand gun worn in a shoulder holster.  It was a .22, she thought.  Dazed, she pulled it from the holster and rubbed her blood covered finger along the barrel.  She could make out the word "Pathfinder".  Well, he'd found their path all right. Was he planning all along to shoot them, she wondered bitterly.

It was then, as she lifted her eyes from the gun, that she saw the three men standing motionless, watching her, about fifty feet down the road.  She didn't recognize any of them.  One man was grey haired, round faced, standing almost relaxed, with a heavy attack stick held loosely in a dirty hand.  The two others were younger.  One was tall and thin. Stringy blond hair fell to his shoulders and his beard was patchy.  The other was stocky and dark complected.  His upper lip was short and allowed some large gray rabbit-like teeth to show.  There was a familiar look about them that she couldn't place.  After a second it came to her.  They all reflected the same mixture of hunger and terror that she had seen in Mike's eyes.  Everyone's hungry.  Everyone's frightened.  We are all at the end of something - at the beginning of an unknown terror.

She stood up slowly, holding the small gun in one hand down at her side and wiping the other hand on her slacks. The men had started to move toward her.  She looked from one face to another, backing, backing, slowly into the woods.

"How do, Ma'am," said the older man finally, in an ingratiating tenor, "Would you have something to share with us - eats, I mean.  That's all we want.  We're all of us hungry."

She shook her head, mutely, looking for signs of a gun, a knife, any weapon.

"She don't look hungry to me," whined the dark one.

"You think she killed Mike?" asked the blond one, "Watch it!  She's got his gun now."

"Naw.  She's scared."

They were coming closer, step by step.  She turned and raced back along the path.  Her feet felt nightmare slow as she stumbled into fallen branches and stones on the path. She could hear them crashing along behind her.

"Alan!  Alan!  Don't shoot.  It's me."

Alan was still standing near the trailer.  The rifle rested on his arm.  His eyes were a startling blue against his white face.  Just as she reached him, there was an explosion in the woods.

"My mines.  Got someone," he said tonelessly.  His eyes didn't seem to be focused.

"They're coming.  Two more.  Here, take this and give me that rifle."

When he didn't move, she tossed the .22 into her lawn chair and snatched the rifle.  Just as Alan had taught her, she pushed the lever to eject the shell and cock it.  When the young blond burst into the clearing with his gun drawn, Margo put the rifle to her cheek and squeezed the trigger. Both of his feet left the ground and he landed with a thud on his back.  He arched his back once and did not move again. She noticed with a stunned surprise that there were holes in the soles of his shoes.

The recoil had knocked her against Alan who pried the rifle out of her hands.

"Get into the trailer," he said.

She obeyed, teeth chattering, chilled now and shaking with nervous reaction.

Alan stayed beside the trailer, watching.  When, after a few minutes, a man stepped out into the clearing, there was another shot, a groan, and then silence.

"Just three of them?" Alan stuck his head in the door.

"So far," she answered.  "Mike is dead.  Down on the woods road."

"Jesus!" he gasped.  Then, after a pause, "All right. I'll be gone a little while.  Got to move the car and see to - the rest.  Take this and watch the clearing.  Don't shoot me when I come back.  I'll whistle, O.K.?"

She came shakily down the steps and he handed her the rifle.

He started to walk away, then turned back in startled surprise.

"You killed him!"

"They would have killed us - for our food and supplies." She said it flatly, suddenly sure that she was right.  "Mike had a gun under his jacket."

She picked up the tiny blue sweater and tossed it into Alan's chair on top of the scarlet book.  The .22 fit comfortably into her jacket pocket.

Somewhere, deep below the surface were the tears.  But she had to keep guard now against the world.

She watched the shadows lengthen as she waited for her husband to return.