my eyes are wide open, my face to the sky
is that you i'm hearin' in the tall grass nearby
momma come find me before i do die
hey, hey-- momma, look sharp
i'll close your eyes, my Billy
them eyes that cannot see
and never again will ya whisper to me
--1776

They're coming.

Storm tonight-- she can tell by the scent of the evening, the flavor of the sea-blown air. Monsoon before daybreak, here on their island.

And she hears them, their snuffling breath and their restless feet, the animal noise of them carrying over the rising wind.

Smoothly she stands up from the kitchen table, pulls the rifle off its hook on the wall.

Her son looks up at her nervously over the last of their meager dinner, his morning-blue eyes all curiosity.

Casually she rests the gun against her shoulder, puts a hand under his chin and looks at him, hard. He is young still, but he understands, and helps his little sister up from the table.

"They're coming," she says, her voice low, once her children are safe in the shelter of the bedroom shadows. "Hold still."

The boy bites his lip but stays silent. His little sister whimpers, small fingers wrapped around her brother's belt.

"Stay low, Billy Lee. Hold Primera close, it's getting dark." She ruffles her daughter's hair, and the young girl finds a smile. "That's right. I've got your father's gun; it will be all right."

And he nods, wide-eyed, shoulders squared against the wall, tucking the child between his knees as he sits.

She sees herself in him, for a moment, fleeing Solaris on the early morning transport, little boy huddling between her knees, husband with his big hands clutching both of them, never taking his eyes off the window.

They made it out all right, that time, right?

She turns her back and closes the bedroom door behind her.

She checks the rifle in her sweating hands, knowing their supplies are low, that the last two transports didn't come through. Three bullets. Lord have mercy. Wait, the little leather pouch hanging around her neck, warm from pressing against her skin-- four bullets.

Damnation, Jesiah, you know I'm hell with this shotgun. Why couldn't you have left me a good old-fashioned pistol?

She swallows, tucks a curl of dark hair behind her ear. She'd make do. She had to, for the children. Touching the bullet that hangs at her neck, she prays she won't have to use it. Prays for a man she's not seen in two years.

And steels herself.

They're coming.

(In the shadows of the swift-falling evening, three shots ring out. Three empty shells hit the ground; three times the little sister winces in her older brother's arms, her small head shivering at his neck. The wind does not drown out the screams, the brutal sound of murdered souls. Distinctive sound of the front door opening, catching on the rusty hinge, and then an awful silence. Something falls. The girl is so frightened that she forgets to cry; the boy's hands trembling at her shoulders.

When at last the unfamiliar voice calls out to them, with the promise of safety, the rain outside begins to fall.)