by Tony Bulmer
There was no time to avoid the catastrophe. The vast clouds of death moved faster than the mind’s-eye, choking off all hope of survival. Highways disappeared in an instant—cars, trucks, trishaws and a thousand puttering motor scooters enveloped in a shrapnel filled maelstrom—glass, steel, concrete—rising through the monsoon rain—twenty—thirty stories high until heaven it self was blocked from view.
Everything went black. The city lights switched off in unison.
Every computer, television and cell phone—dead.
Every car-light and dashboard, on the clogged highways—black to the world.
Every motor—dead.
Then the screaming started.
Yolanda Madhuri sat forwards in her seat. More than thirty blocks from the epicenter of the explosion, the flash and unholy roar of impending apocalypse reached out towards her. Her eyes grew wide. A question that could never be answered rose to her lips.
The past was gone, torn away in an instant.
The future that could have been—sucked into the black vortex of history.
Only the terror of the now existed—an all-consuming fear, expanding to fill every aspect of the burgeoning darkness.
Night had arrived—eternal night.
Yolanda tried the door of the car. It was locked, welded shut by a microsecond blast of electrical energy that had fried every circuit in the car—she was trapped, captured like a rat inside a bulletproof tomb.
The darkness encroached. The rain lashing down relentlessly, a white, metallic rattle bouncing in from the roiling sky.
Then she saw it—reaching down from the upper atmosphere. The lightening came first, an unnatural penumbra radiating out across the darkened cityscape. Next, the sky began to glow—a false dawn at night’s inception. The aurora grew in size—yellow and green and gold and blue—an alien glow gathering beyond the clouds. The horrific flickering colors bathed the darkened streets, as a hundred billion charged particles electrified a hundred billion more, and began sucking energy from the earth’s magnetic field, as they multiplied outwards across the whole sky.
Yolanda stared in horror at the unnatural sight—What the hell was happening? Was this the end of the world? The final judgment of Yama risen from the realm of death?
As the glowing aurora pulsed wider, the whole night began to flicker with the strobing power of a raging electrical firestorm. The intensity of the storm was like nothing she had seen before—vast crackling sheets of lightening flickering across every part of the sky with such vicious intensity the hard rain boiled into steam.
Just as suddenly as the storm began, it was over. For several moments there was only silence, reaching in from the endless night. Then the rain began to fall again, coming out of the darkness, slow drops at first then faster until the downpour was once again pummeling the blackened streets as viciously as it ever had.
Yolanda’s heart pounded, the anxiety coming in waves. What had just happened? Where was everyone? Why were they no lights? Her thoughts flipped wildly, a series of horrific scenarios playing through her mind like a flickering show reel—What of the people she knew—her friends, colleagues—people at the studio? And what about her family? Despite the many travails they had endured together throughout the years, she wished them no harm. Where were they now–her brothers—her sister, her mother and father and the extended family too? Uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews… Were they there…in the darkness…lonely and afraid?
Yolanda reached out with her heart, struggling to feel the connection with her loved ones. She sat there in the rain-lashed darkness, her eyes closed, the power of prayer reaching through the night.
There was no answer to her prayers.
Nothing—
—Just eternal darkness.
33
Mumbai Police HQ
Inside the Commissioner’s office, a dry-burnt electrical smell floated like toxic mist.
Karyn crouched by the window, her gun drawn, staring out into the pouring rain. Furtive shapes came running across the street, moving in from the darkness, crouching low with weapons held ready. The explosion was just the start. Now it was time for the assault. Karyn gripped her pistol tighter and said calmly. “Hostiles incoming. Twenty, maybe thirty—all of them with assault weapons—all of them heading our way.”
The sound of frazzled, sparking electrics filled the room. The nightmare had come true. The EMP device had detonated, with catastrophic results. The epicenter of the explosion was unclear right now, but judging from the dark world outside the window, the weapon had functioned beyond its performance envelope.
Everything they had talked about was now irrelevant. The terrorists had gotten the jump on them in spectacular style. A hard metallic noise sounded out from deep inside the building, as though a back-up generator was about to come online. Suddenly, the room was bathed in a glowing red light; so dim it took several moments to establish what was going on. The Commissioner lay on the floor, peering anxiously out from beneath his desk, with his revolver drawn. Pranav Shaurya crouched by the door, holding a fire extinguisher, whilst Jack Senegar sat immobile in his chair, his teacup and saucer balanced on his knee in the exact same position he had been before the explosion. As the lights came on, he raised himself slowly out of the chair, placed his cup on the Commissioner’s desk and then, with a casual flourish, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a military issue Beretta M9.
“Gentlemen, we have a situation.” Senegar raised the pistol into the twelve o’clock position and strode for the door. He turned, gave Karyn the nod and she followed wordlessly.
“Wait! You cannot leave. You have to help us. What are we going to do?” blurted the Commissioner, his voice rising high with panic.
Karyn paused in the doorway, turned and said, “You might want to stay under the desk sir. There is going to be shooting. Your people will need your direction in the aftermath, until then…” She looked around the office. “ Do you have any heavy weapons?”
The Commissioner peered out from beneath the desk, a cigarette dangling precariously from the corner of his mouth. He fingered his pistol nervously, “We have assault weapons—all kinds of things—downstairs in the armory.”
“No time for that,” said Karyn. “This building is under attack and there is no telling whether infiltrators are inside already. Sit tight and form a defensive position. ” Karyn’s eyes drifted over to the large caliber elephant gun the Commissioner had hanging from the wall. She nodded towards it. “That peashooter you got hanging from your trophy wall. Have you got any cartridges for that thing?”
“Sure I do,” blurted the Commissioner. “But that is a sporting gun, it is not designed for law enforcement purposes.”
Karyn pursed her lips, nodded and said, “Uh-huh, I see. What you are saying is you haven’t taken down any big game in a while. That’s OK. Judging by the size of the crowd outside, you are going to get as much sport as you can handle and more besides, so you best load up now, while you still got the chance.”
Pranav Shaurya, still crouching by the door, hugging the fire extinguisher like it was a newborn baby, looked up at her. “Can I be of assistance Ms. Kane?”
Karyn raised a wry eyebrow and jerked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the Commissioner’s defensive position beneath his desk. “Sure you can,” she said. “Your boss needs a light for his cigarette. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work too do.”
Pranav Shaurya had no time to respond. Karyn was already striding away down the darkened hallway. Automatic gunfire sounded out in the distance, first one short burst, then another. She moved quickly, her weapon at the ready, marching shoulder to shoulder with Jack Senegar, as they headed through the darkness towards the sounds of the approaching battle.
34
Ploutos Capital Building, New York City
“Have you seen the news? The whole city destroyed!” Truman Whitaker had no appetite for dinner. He had pushed three courses around his plate and barely eaten a thing. But now, the
wine was getting to him and he could no longer maintain any semblance of social pretence.
Irving King sat at the far end of the grand dining table and dabbed his lips lightly with a linen napkin. He took a deep breath and placed the napkin beside his plate. He bestowed what might have been interpreted as a benevolent look upon his guest and said, “My personal chef Jean Baptiste will be most distressed at your lack of appetite Mr. Secretary. He has achieved many accolades in his long career, but making dinner for a future president—I know that this evening was a special honor for him, and yet you have barely touched your food.”
“I didn’t come here for the dining experience King. You told me we were going to make money, a lot of money—you never mentioned it would come to this!”
Irving King stretched a lukewarm smile across his face. His thin, cruel eyes narrowing as he assessed Truman Whitaker’s growing state of panic.
“That Chinese bomb took the whole city out—it frazzled every financial institution in the whole of South Asia. Stocks are in free-fall Irving—every money market in the world heading into the toilet, and it’s all down to you.”
Irving King smiled more broadly now. “You flatter me as ever Mr. Secretary. But I have no great talent for facilitating world events. My specialty is in forecasting market trends. A supremely rewarding skill as you may know.”
“I never realized it would come to this—hundreds of billions of dollars—people will ask questions Irving—they will want to know how we knew!”
“Calm yourself Mr. Secretary. It is the business of Ploutos Capital to handle such things. Our business extends far beyond the reach of government.”
“But there will be an investigation—the Justice Department, the Securities and Exchange Commission—they will find out about us and when they do they will destroy us. They will take everything!”
Irving King gave a derisive snort. He examined his immaculately manicured fingernails for a long moment then turned his gaze back to his guest. “You surprise me Mr. Secretary, that a man of your political talents would be so naïve when it comes to the realities of the world. Ever since the crash of 2008 the Securities and Exchange Commission has been nothing more than a toothless lap dog serving the world of finance. I own the Securities and Exchange Commission Mr. Secretary—I pay their wages, I buy their yachts, I send their brat-children to Yale and Harvard. Their squalid little lives are entirely dependent upon my success. Do you really think they would yank the rug of plenty from beneath their own pampered feet—do you really think that would happen—ever?”
“But our enemies are everywhere Irving. Word of our success will leak out. Those hacks in the media will spill their poison; they will force the Supreme Court to show their hand. We will be discredited, ruined.”
“Calm yourself Mr. Secretary. Very soon you will be President, then you will be in a position to nominate men of conscience to positions of high office. Once our fair country is returned to the stewardship of men of great vision, there will be no place for the dissident mind set; no room for the politics of failure. The Humanistian age is upon us Mr. Secretary—marvel as the world changes before your very eyes—you are a leader of the new age, be proud of that.”
“You don’t understand Irving. This thing is out of control. Thousands of people have been killed. Those terrorists—are on a wild murder spree. Where will it end? Those Uyghur savages almost killed me for Christsakes and they kidnapped poor Lauren too. This was not what we agreed.”
“You hate that bitch. What are you complaining about? Are you telling me you want her back now?”
“You don’t understand Irving. I have to get her back—I have to make concessions, people expect that. ”
“Concessions are a sign of weak leadership Mr. Secretary.” Irving King set his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers together. He considered his guest for a moment then said, “Do you like this table Mr. Secretary?”
Puzzled at the change of tack, Truman Whitaker frowned and said as politely as he could manage, “It is very old. An antique is it not? I like antiques.”
Irving King nodded. “I hate antiques. Modernity is the gateway to the future. You would do well to remember that.” He paused then said, “This table once belonged to the French King Louis XVI. It is said he and his wife Marie Antoinette ate their last meal upon it, before they were transported to the steps of the guillotine.” Irving King paused, smiled then continued, “Now, I know you are asking yourself Mr. Secretary, if I hate antiques so much, why did I spend a small fortune on such an idiosyncratic artifact? Well, I bought it for two reasons. Firstly, so a rival who wanted it much more than I could not have it, and secondly, so that I would have a charming reminder every day that no matter how powerful a man is, he must be wise as well, or he might just find his head in a basket. You don’t want your head land in a basket, do you Mr. Secretary?”
Truman Whitaker swallowed, blinked nervously and stammered, “That is an ugly metaphor King, the sort of comment that could be misinterpreted as a threat.”
Irving King gave the Secretary of State a cold, dangerous look. “I like your spirit Whitaker. You are talking the big talk like you have options. Unfortunately the choices you once had, back in the days when you were just another political hack—long on ideas and short on pocket change—those days are gone and they are not coming back. Not now, not ever.”
Truman Whitaker pushed his chair away from the table and rose to his feet, nausea rising through his body in tsunami waves. He raised a finger and pointed unsteadily across the table “You are threatening me aren’t you King? You probably think you are smart don’t you—involving me in this clever little plan of yours, so you can fabricate evidence of wrong-doing—you think I didn’t plan for that? You think I didn’t have my people work through a watertight scheme to keep me in the clear?” The Secretary of State flung his dinner napkin onto the table triumphantly. “You cannot touch me King. Every cent of that dirty money has been funneled clean. You cannot touch me. Do you hear?”
Elbows on the table, Irving King clapped his hands together very slowly. “Bravo Mr. Secretary. You are indeed resourceful—a man of great foresight. You will make a very convincing figurehead when you finally reach the Whitehouse. But you would be wise to remember who paved the road to that achievement.”
“We are through King. You haven’t got a damn thing on me and you know it.”
Irving King nodded, “You are a man of irreproachable integrity Mr. Secretary. I applaud you for your high-minded ideals—as new found as they may be.” Irving King paused, smiled then said, “If only there were someone other than myself who could cast a more sobering light on the true nature of your affairs?”
Truman Whitaker stood at the end of the table swaying, as the power of the booze thundered through his veins. He scrunched his face, trying to make sense of the comment, but the subtext eluded him.
Smiling happily now, Irving King reached down beside his place setting and pressed a button on the handset remote that lay there beside the silver cutlery. The Cineplex sized screens around the room burst into life and the dirty, harried face of Lauren Whitaker loomed over them.
“You’ve got to help me Truman, you have to send money now.” There was a sudden burst of static and the video looped again—and again and again.
Truman Whitaker stared wide-eyed at the big video screens. His incredulous gaze switching from one to the other and back again, until he could bear it no more.
“Where the hell did you get this footage?”
Irving King pressed freeze-frame. Pausing the plaintive face mid sentence. “She doesn’t look happy does she Truman, and I can’t say I blame her. She looks like she is having a torrid time of it in the wilds of Islamistan, or where ever it is those Uyghur ruffians are holding her.”
“You know where she is don’t you? You monster.”
“There is no need for name calling Mr. Secretary. But as a betting man I would be inclined to wager that your pretty little wife is getting
mighty sick of those savages running their dirty maws all over that pretty little body of hers. You have got no idea where those mud-hut-Muslims have been—do you?
“I want her back. I have to get her back.”
“I just bet you do Mr. Secretary. Although, after she has been passed around every AIDS ravaged rapist in Asia, I don’t know what she will be useful for.”
Truman Whitaker issued an involuntary sob and clutched at his face with his hands, as though he were tearing at his own flesh to make the horror go away.
“I will do anything to get her back, anything.”
“I know you will Mr. Secretary. That was never in doubt. But you have been a very bad boy, haven’t you—cheating on her with all those call girls you love so much? Now, I am sure your wife knows in her heart just what sort of man you are, but when confronted with that incontrovertible evidence—well, who knows what kind of wild allegations that pretty little lady could make—and in a court of law too, more than likely. Women. They have got that side to them, don’t they—that blabbermouth gene? You ask me, they can’t help themselves.” Irving King paused, regarded the Secretary of State very carefully, to gauge the effect of his words, then he said, “I can see you’re upset Mr. Secretary; who wouldn’t be under the circumstances. But I will tell you what I am going to do, us being such good friends and all. I am going to help you out; make this shit-storm headache go away, like it was just a bad dream. Now, how’s that sound to you?”
Truman Whitaker made a choking sound.
Irving King gave a cruel smile. “Get out of my sight you maggot. If I need you, I will be in touch—and you had better make sure you are standing ready, if you know what’s good for you.”
Truman Whitaker blinked wetly, knowing he was utterly defeated. He headed through the door without another word. It closed silently behind him.
