Chaos Theory: A Feel Good Story About the End of the World

by Colin Robertson

  The barman sighed, put down the pint glass he'd been wiping and trudged over, "Ay?"

  "I'll have a pint of bitter please."

  "Which one?"

  "Whatever you recommend. Oh, and an iced tea for the boy.

  "I don't drink iced tea," said Alex.

  "Good," said the barman, "cuz we 'an't got noon. We got coke, we got water, an' we got beer."

  "Do you have diet coke?"

  "Pansy Coke? No, we dunna got pansy Coke."

  "Okay, Coke, please."

  "Pepsi a'right?"

  "Um, sure."

  The barman proceeded to pull Charlie's draught and Alex's Pepsi.

  "Wet out," said Charlie, hoping to draw out a conversation.

  "Is it?"

  Charlie hesitated, unsure if the man were joking. His expression betrayed nothing.

  "Very. Do you know if it'll clear up?"

  "Fellow on telly said sun tomorrow."

  "Oh, Good."

  "Ay, but it's a cheap telly, so tha n'er knows." The proprietor finished filling their drinks and placed them on the bar. He didn't let go of the glasses, however. Instead, he held them firmly along with Charlie and Alex's attention. "Drink up, eat if you moost, then you and yur lad best be goin'. Folks may be less than friendly wit' what all's goin' on."

  "What's goin'—going on?" asked Charlie.

  The barman's watery blue eyes told Charlie he'd have to find his answers elsewhere. Charlie nodded to indicate that he accepted the barkeep's terms. "Okay. Maybe some fish'n chips to go?" asked Charlie.

  "Fine."

  "How much do I owe you?"

  "It's on the house."

  "I'm happy to pay."

  "It's on the house."

  Charlie nodded again, and the barman walked away. Charlie sipped his pint of bitter and peered about the bar. It was warm and cozy, and likely two hundred years old at least. The flat-screen TVs and Super-Nudge slot-machines had presumably been added more recently. The televisions, he noticed, were all tuned to either the BBC or CNN International. The riots onscreen were clearly global. Wolf Blitzer spoke before an image of a burning car in Boston, while Anderson Cooper looked down upon a wall of riot police in New York. The closest screen, however, was out of earshot. Charlie looked to see whether he and Alex could move closer. All the tables were full, and it was hard to even stand near a set without blocking someone's view. The last thing Charlie wanted to do was give cause for a local to be annoyed.

  "Tha's all yur fault, tha' knows?"

  "I'm sorry?" said Alex.

  Charlie turned to see an old man in a wool cap waggling his finger at them from a nearby barstool.

  "Tha riots! All yur fault," he said with a Scotch braw so thick it could be mixed with oatmeal and used to stuff a sheep's stomach.

  "I don't understand," said Charlie. "Our fault?"

  "Och aye. Is lak tha poet says, the best laid schemes o' mice 'n men..."

  "I'm sorry," said Charlie. "I really don't know what you're talking about."

  "Either does he," muttered Alex with a smirk. "Crazy old coot."

  At that moment the image on screen switched to the video of Ali Madda threatening to destroy the Earth. CNN had been playing it repeatedly since it first aired. Initially, they had no information on it and had spent the entire time speculating. The assumption was that it was all some sort of hoax. Despite this, the Cable News Network had cleared the deck of all other news stories and begun round-the-clock coverage. CNN brought out their best pundits and began describing how, in theory, the world might end were the device actually real which, they occasionally reminded viewers, it almost certainly was not. The Republican spokepeople blamed the Democrats, the Democratic pundits blamed the Republicans. No one knew what was happening, but were quite confident whose fault it was. It soon degenerated into an argument as to whether the 2nd amendment included doomsday devices. The result was a fear feeding frenzy. That was when the riots began and, suddenly, there was a lot more news to cover.

  "Tha'! Tha' fella on telly!" yelled the old Scott. He'd now taken to his feet and was spitting on them as he shouted. "Sayin' he's goin' ta blow up world with what weapon yoo Yanks made fifty-years ago. Now thar's riots and sooch all o'r world. I's absoloot chaos!"

  "Calm down Tinker!" ordered the barman. He pointed to Tinker's barstool to indicate that calming down also meant sitting down.

  "Why should I, A.D.? They dunna leave alone, now doo they? They think they know't all and they dinna ken nuthin! Nuthin! They just... bah!" Tinker shot the pub-owner a defiant glance but did as he was told. He sat on his barstool and scowled at them like an ornery old hound.

  Charlie glanced about to see that they had, once more, become the most interesting thing in the room. Dozens of faces eyed them from every nook and corner of the public house. The barman received a pair of newspaper wrapped bundles from a barmaid and tossed them on the counter. "Here's yur fish'n chips. Yu'd better go, lads, a'fore there's trooble."

  "Thank-you, " said Charlie. He gingerly picked up the hot bundles, now translucent with oil. "What we actually need is directions. We're looking for a Lucy MacGuffin, Dr. Rupert MacGuffin's widow?"

  The barman looked surprised, then amused. "Lucy MacGuffin?"

  Charlie nodded.

  "Well, if it's MacGuffin farm you want, keep going, up road ten miles. You canna miss it."

  "How will I know it?"

  Now, the barman chuckled outright. "Oh, I think you'll know't. It's a very... distinctive stroocture." The others at the bar within earshot laughed at this, with the exception of Tinker, who continued to eye them suspiciously. "Guid luck!" the barman said with an amused smile.

  "Thank-you," said Charlie, wishing he knew what was so funny.

  * * *

  Charlie drove the rented Volkswagen along the gravel road that wound its way between the high hills that gave the land its name. The rain had lifted and left a low hanging mist in its place. The result was an air of damp Scottish romance, like a copy of The Bride of Lammermoor dropped in a puddle. Even Alex, who had always protested when his mother told him to stop playing with his iPod long enough to look out the car window, could not help but wonder at the soaring landscape around them.

  Only BBC Radio 1 served to remind them of whatever it was that was passing for reality these days. "... while UN and United States officials are down-playing the threat. The President of the United States has yet to explicitly refute the existence of such a weapon. Many experts suggest that this is purely a hoax concocted by Ali Madda precisely for creating the type of terror seen in streets around the world today. If so, then—"

  Charlie switched off the car radio. His brain was unable to process it anyway. Instead, it was overwhelmed by the massive grey edifice that loomed out of the mist before them. At six hundred and forty feet tall, the structure stood shoulder to shoulder with the highest of the surrounding hilltops. Despite its details being lost in its own shadow, there was no mistaking the concave contours of a nuclear cooling tower. Both Charlie and Alex struggled with the incongruity of it all.

  "Do you think that's what he meant by distinctive?" asked Alex.

  * * *

  As they drove closer to the tower, they could see that it was badly weathered and in need of repair. Cracks were visible across the surface. In places, the outer layer of cement had actually sloughed off, revealing the steel rebar skeleton beneath. The ominous shadow of the man-made mountain draped the entire valley in permanent dusk, resulting in grey grass and brown briar at its base. There were none of the other buildings one would expect with an operating nuclear facility. Instead, at the foot of the tower was a quaint little croft cottage, surrounded by a dry stone dyke wall. Alex, who had needed to go to the toilet for the past twenty-minutes, noticed an outhouse visible to the side. He hoped it was an unused relic, but decided he would make do if need be. Smoke dribbled from the chimney and meandered off into the sky. Someone was home. Charlie pulled in to park next to the rusting remains of a ramshack
le 1957 Morris Minor.

  "I still don't get why we're here," said Alex. "I mean, isn't the mad professor dead?"

  "Missing. Presumed dead."

  "But you think he's alive?"

  "No, we're here to see his widow." With that, Charlie lifted the iron ring door knocker and let it fall with a surprisingly loud ka-lock!

  "Dead or not, that'll wake him," said Alex with a grin. He then leaned over to peer through an adjacent pebbled glass window, only to be yanked back by Charlie.

  "Don't be rude!" said Charlie.

  Alex looked peeved. "You can't see anything anyway."

  "Uh huh."

  The door was opened by an elderly, but robust woman in her eighties. She looked them up and down with keen blue eyes, then nodded. "From the goov'ment are ye? Right then, ya better coom in."

  Several minutes later, Charlie and Alex found themselves in the sitting room of the cottage. Alex had been relieved to learn that the home did indeed include indoor plumbing. Inside, the dwelling was every bit as cozy and charming as one could imagine. The only oddness was the perpetual sense of dusk created by the cooling tower's shadow. This sense of anomaly was further heightened by the sight of sunlight on nearby hills, clearly visible through the windows. The low ceilings had forced Charlie to stoop when entering, but he now sat comfortably ensconced on a sofa. Charlie glanced about the living room. It was crammed full of antiques. Just like their owner, he mused. Alex sat on the other end of the sofa, staring at a pewter statuette on the mantle above the fire. It was of the American mythical figure, Rip Van Winkle, aroused from decades of slumber to find his beard grown long. Their host, satisfied they were comfortable, was visible through the kitchen doorway, preparing tea. She was a handsome woman, Charlie decided, and must have quite attractive in her youth, although unusually tall for a woman. The dress she wore, patterned with intertwining thistles, looked to be an antique as well. Still, it suited her, he thought.

  "You sure I can't help you with that?" Charlie called out.

  "No, I'm fine. Thank-ye mooch."

  Her accent, Charlie noted, was not strictly Scottish, but a mix. He recognized Yorkshire and even some American. The result of living in many places from a young age, he mulled.

  Mrs. MacGuffin stepped from the kitchen carrying the tea tray, then stopped. Her hands began to shake. The teacups began to tremble. Charlie leapt from his seat to help. "Is a might heavier w' so mooch water," she said, "I'm not used havin' coompany." Together, they placed the tray down on the coffee table. Mrs. MacGuffin sank down into her seat with a sigh. "Right then, we'll just let that infuse a bit."

  "Mrs. MacGuffin... may I call you Lucy?"

  "No."

  "Um, okay. Mrs. MacGuffin, we are here because we need to ask you a few questions about Dr. Rupert MacGuffin."

  Mrs. MacGuffin nodded, "Well, I didna suppose you came to ask me about ma-self." She then glanced at her watch. "Right then," she said, "I think that's time." She began arranging the teacups on their saucers.

  Charlie stared at the watch on her wrist. That looks like an antique too, he thought. He was right. The watch was one of the original Santos men's watches designed by Louis Cartier in 1904. "Lovely watch," he said.

  "A memento," Mrs. MacGuffin explained. "Before he departed I never wore a watch. Time was always Rupert's concern. When he went, I simply put it on. I dunna ken why, exactly."

  "When he went... you mean when Dr. MacGuffin died?" asked Charlie.

  "I meant what I said, and I said what I meant." She responded. "You may call him 'departed' and he is most surely 'late', but he is not, to my knowledge, dead. Milk?"

  Charlie decided it would be improper to press the matter. She's clearly in denial, he thought. "Yes, please. No sugar."

  Mrs. MacGuffin poured the milk, which Charlie noted, was yellow with cream.

  "And you, young man?" she said addressing Alex. "How do you take your tea?"

  "I don't," said Alex with surprise. "My mother says—said, I 'm too young for caffeine."

  "Nonsense, it's good for a growing lad," she said. "Tea'n Gin'll keep ye thin. Tha's what me moother taught me."

  "Listen lady, I said I don't want—" Charlie kicked Alex under the table. Alex started to protest, "I don't have to..." Charlie sternly stared him to silence. Alex scowled and sank into the sofa in a sulk.

  Mrs. MacGuffin proceeded to fill a cup two-thirds with milk and added just a splash of tea. "There you go, young man" she said with a warm smile. "Tea for beginners."

  Surprised by the warmth of her smile, Alex begrundingly accepted the cup. They then waited while Mrs. MacGuffin poured for herself. Alex tried a tentative sip, decided it was harmless, and relaxed.

  "Do you know about something called Project Loose Thread?" asked Charlie.

  "Of course, dear, there's ne'er day goes by I dinnae think about it."

  "Then you know that it's resurfaced?"

  "Oh, aye. I've been expectin' it."

  "You have?"

  "Well, it was always just a matter of time, weren't it? I mean, it couldn'a be destroyed."

  "Oh right, I see," said Charlie. Charlie considered this for a moment and decided that, despite her doddering appearance, Mrs. MacGuffin knew and understood a great deal. "Of course, I've read the documents," he said. "But the science is far beyond me. Can you explain how it works exactly?"

  "Nay. The science is beyond me too, and everyone else for that matter. All you really need t'ken is t'open the cask would be very, very bad."

  "They say it could destroy the world. Of course, I've always assumed that wasn't exactly, well... accurate."

  "Well, no, I suppose that's not strictly accurate," said Mrs. MacGuffin reflectively. "Saying it would destroy the world would be lak saying the black death made a few people feel poorly. More accurate would be to say it would destroy the entire universe."

  Alex choked on his tea. Charlie simply let his mouth hang open.

  "Don't catch flies, dear," said Mrs. MacGuffin. She reached across and gently lifted Charlie's jaw shut. "Now then, where are my manners?" She then offered up a plate of cookies. "Biscuit?"

  "No, thank-you. Mrs. MacGuffin, can you be a little more specific as to how it could destroy the entire universe?" asked Charlie.

  "Well, I suppose I could explain it to you the same way Rupert used to explain it to other layfolk."

  "Please. That would be very helpful."

  "Right. Well, the first thing you need to do is to stop taking existence so literally. That was always a stumbling block right there for his colleagues. The Nobel Laureates, ach, they were the worst. Right boonch of empiricists, they were. Always waving their medals around and going on and on about how clever they all were—"

  "Got it."

  "Right. Next forget everything you know about quantum mechanics."

  "Done," said Charlie. Since neither he nor Alex knew anything about quantum mechanics, this was really quite easy.

  "And math."

  "I failed math last year," said Alex helpfully.

  "Good for you, dear," said Mrs. MacGuffin. "Well then, let's get started..."

  Chapter 16

  "Finally, a practical use for physics."

  – Harry S. Truman

  The Pentagon, Virginia. Tuesday, September 5, 1956.

  The meeting room was a cumulonimbus cloud of cigar and pipe smoke hovering about the heads of the twelve men gathered there. Most of the men were soldiers. They were among the highest ranking officers from all four of the US armed service branches, Army, Navy, Marines and Air Force. Each wore a phalanx of medals on his chest. The room itself was located on the fourth floor of the Pentagon's A-ring, with a large picture window overlooking the facility's five-sided courtyard. This was the semiannual meeting of the Joint Chief's Weapons Advisory Board. Membership on the JCWAB (pronounced "Jcwab") was largely offered as consolation prize for not being appointed directly to the Joint Chiefs of Staff (pronounced "Joint Chiefs of Staff"). The group's unofficial motto was "no hard
feelings." Still, they had what most considered a fun job, providing recommendations to the Joint Chiefs on which weapons research projects to fund. In other words, they got to unwrap all the new toys before Christmas. Their attention was focused on an overhead projector slide showing the predicament they faced. The Soviets had, again, conducted an underground test of a bomb that appeared to be bigger than any in the current US arsenal.

  Doug Nolan, DOD AWD Director, having finished the core of his presentation, now took his seat. Doug was one of only two civilians in the room. He carefully placed the experimental 'laser pointer' back into his briefcase. Still needs work, he thought. At two feet long, it wasn't much shorter than a conventional pointing stick anyway, and the laser itself definitely needed calibration. In the ten minutes Doug had been talking, the pointer had burned a hole in the projection screen, set fire to the drapes and sliced Colonel Clarkson's tie in half. Colonel Clarkson, fortunately, had laughed off the incident.

  "So, we just build an even bigger bomb," said General McKoy, brushing aside the concern. General James L. McKoy was the board's chairman. "Hell, we already have two in development."

  "Come on J.L., you know the problem," responded Nolan, pausing to take a sip of ice water. "The atomic bomb, the hydrogen bomb, the neutron bomb—every time we up the ante, the Russians meet us and raise."

  The General puffed his pipe for a moment, then nodded. "You're right. Costs us a Goddamn fortune too. Those penny pinchers in Washington are beginnin' to ask questions." The General broke in a mock whine, "What about education? What about healthcare?" He stopped to snort phlegm from one side of his nose, then continued, "Goddamn bunch o' whiners if you ask me. They don't understand that none of that matters if the Ruskies turn their precious hospitals and schools into smoking craters and we have a bunch of radioactive mutant babies on our hands. Still, if I go to Admiral Radford sayin' we just need bigger bombs, he'll wonder what the Hell we're doin' all day." The others nodded their agreement. The ever escalating cost of the arms race was a growing concern. Mutually assured destruction, it seemed, had a downside. "What I don't understand is, how a bunch of commies can keep up with us? We're America fur Christ's sake!"