They stop, look at each and he is nodding at her.

“I heard it too,” he says while pulling his phone out of his pocket to make a call.

“Was that a scream?” she asks gripping his arm as he dials 911.

The Cavanaugh’s live on the outskirts of Springfield, Oregon on a quiet street called Clearwater Lane just north of a section of the Willamette River. The house is removed from the regular congested sections of suburbia where house after house sit in close proximity to each other.

The homes out here are all on their own five-or ten-acre lots, and the various owners take pride and care in what they own. Criminal activity doesn’t occur in this part of the city. It is too heavily patrolled by the private security the local landowners hired to protect their property and lifestyles.

“I got put on hold,” he says, looking angrily at his phone as if he can force the police to pick it up.

Another sound echoes through the sky making them both start moving their feet.

“That was a gunshot,” they say in unison and run to open the back door of the house.

The next ten minutes are spent in frantic and useless phone dialing. They never reached the police. Their cell phones went from constant ringing, to messages that the system was overwhelmed, to steady busy tones. Even the landline they have in the house was no good to them. Every number they had to dial was for a cell phone on the other end or other messages and busy signals. No calls were going out over the airwaves.

“I have one more number I can call, Evelyn, I’m heading to my study. You keep trying our phones, maybe you’ll get through.”

Returning to the kitchen a few moments later, Greg pauses at the kitchen entryway and looks at his wife. She is drinking a glass of water which is shaking in time with her hand. Turning her head toward him, her tear-soaked eyes are red, but instead of sorrow, they now express anger.

“I haven’t gotten through. Not one damn phone number I called is connecting.”

Stepping forward and grabbing hold of her hands, Greg smiles.

“My number worked.” Her eyes light up but he shakes his head to prevent her from asking anything. “I don’t know about Lloyd; in fact, I don’t know anything.”

“You don’t know anything? Who the hell did you call?”

“After I was sworn in, they gave me a package to be used during emergencies. It had a number on the front that I was supposed to call if there was ever an attack or normal communications went down. They barely let me ask any questions, so I don’t know what is going on. They asked who I was and my authorization code, how many people were here and what our current situation was.”

“Our current situation? Compared to what?”

“That’s what I asked. They asked if we were currently under attack or in immediate danger. I told them about the gunshots and the screams, that Lloyd is at a summer camp and we’re the only ones here. After I gave them the camp’s address, they said they would try to get someone out here right away and hung up. When I dialed back, I got a message telling me our call has been received and help is on the way.”

The surface of the water in Evelyn’s glass ripples, and the windows shake as well with the clap of sound that hits the house. Both rush to the back door and run out into the yard to try and see from which direction the explosions sound came.

Returning to the backyard reminds them both why they retreated inside in the first place. The muted sound of a distant explosion was enough to breach the sound dampening construction of their home. The now regular crackle of gunfire in the distance reaches their ears to remind them something terrible is happening in Springfield today.

“We shouldn’t be out here. We can’t even see anything from back here, our yard is too secluded by trees.”

“What do you think it was?”

“There’s too many possibilities for me to know for sure. I might be able to see something from the roof, but I need to get you back inside first.”

Another sound of an echoing crash reaches them before they return to the house.

“We have to get back inside!”

Before reaching the backdoor, a police officer rounds the corner of their house followed by several stiff-looking armed men in suits that Greg thinks belong back in Washington D.C.

“Representative Cavanaugh?” the leading man asks.

“Yes, that’s me. What’s going on? Did you hear the explosions?”

“Sir, we have been sent to take you and your wife to safety.