Twisting Topeka

by Lissa Staley

  “Why them?”

  “The fitness instructor will help us keep our bodies in shape. The artist and poet will help keep our minds open to creativity.”

  *****

  The news over the next few days came sporadically. Ken used the above ground satellite dishes to tap into the Internet as well as short wave radio to locate survivors around the world. Each week he posted population counts by country on the library bulletin board. The counts declined as infected people succumbed to chemical and radiation poisoning. To put variety in his figures he asked those reporting to him to give demographics like sex, race, religion, age, and occupation when they were available.

  “Was it worth surviving, if no one else lives?” Alicia asked over breakfast.

  “People are alive.”

  “But they’re dying.”

  “Not all of them. Those who were far enough from the jet stream or have shelters like ours are fine. The real challenge is moving food and medical supplies. Once things stabilize and it’s safe to go outside, we’ll establish supply chains again.”

  “But how do we bring order to all the unrest going on out there?”

  “That’s in the hands of the military and first responders. All we have to worry about is keeping ourselves safe.”

  She pointed across the room to the monitors, which showed images of cities on fire after militants exploded car bombs. “With so many of the world leaders either dead or underground, who’s going to lead those of us who are left?”

  “There’s talk of forming a world government along the lines of Star Trek’s Federation of Planets.”

  “How would that work differently than the United Nations?”

  He gave her a good humored grin. “We could watch some Star Trek movies and find out while we go back to bed and make love.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Okay, so maybe we’ll wait until after dinner.” He took her hand and kissed the backs of her fingers. “Dad’s asked me to help him birth calves. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Before leaving their pod, he checked on Noah, who slept after his morning feeding. He loved watching his son. The time he spent with Alicia and Noah helped him ground his thoughts from all the techno jargon that went through his mind while working with the computers.

  “I thought you were headed to work.”

  “I’m just procrastinating with the ones I love.”

  Two deep passionate kisses later, he managed to leave. He walked to the library and posted his daily report. On his way to the stream corridor, he waved to his mom who monitored the preschoolers while they petted bunnies and lambs in the park.

  He stopped on the landing to look down on this underground ark. The population count now numbered 453 with the birth of another baby last night. The carbon monoxide filtering system along with oxygen production from the plants provided enough breathable air for a maximum of 800 people and animals. For the contingency they wound up living below ground longer than two years, his dad and the other engineers continued to work on options for filtering in outside air.

  His dad met him at the pasture door. “You’re late.”

  “I was comforting Alicia. She’s worried about whether all this was worth it.”

  “She’s not adjusting well to living down here; is she, son?”

  “I talked to her folks. Her dad said she suffered from claustrophobia when she was a kid.”

  His dad opened the door to the calving shed. “We’re halfway around the world from ground zero, so our radiation levels are much lower than in Europe, Asia, and Africa. The others and I doubt we’ll have to stay down here more than a year.”

  “Even so, I’m wondering if I should take Alicia to a safe zone. But if I do that, there won’t be anyone here who can run the monitoring equipment I’ve set up.”

  “You’ve got a hard decision to make, son. Just remember what I said before: Taking care of family is a no brainer.”

  Thirteen Months Later

  The ground shook. Ken awoke and rushed into his pod’s living chamber. He switched on the shortwave radio and listened to reports of nuclear bombs exploding all over the world. The closest one hit Fort Riley. It took time, but he managed to connect to a satellite network capable of giving him the ability to assess the damage.

  “What’s going on?” Alicia asked, holding Noah’s hand as he toddled along beside her.

  “Militants took over several nuclear missile silos and are attacking military targets. The American and Russian military are counterattacking and they believe they’ve killed those involved. At the moment, there are still three missiles in route to targets, but our fighter jets are intercepting to take them down.”

  “How bad is the damage?”

  “Bad.” Ken brought up grainy satellite images showing areas affected by nuclear radiation. “This will prolong our need to live underground.”

  “But just last week you said we’d be able to start spending short periods of time outside.”

  “These nuclear attacks have set us back. We’re pretty much starting all over again.”

  “Is there anywhere safe we can go outside?”

  The maps showed radioactive hotspots on every continent with the highest concentrations around major military bases and shelters where world leaders lived. “A few.” He took her hand as he pointed out the safe zones in remote areas of the United States. “We’ll survive, but we’ll have to stay down here longer.”

  She yanked her hand away. “I can’t live like this forever, Ken!”

  He stood up and took her into his arms. “Shh! I know it’s hard. I miss being on the outside too. All any of us can do is take each day and make the best of it.”

  She let go of Noah’s hand and backed away. “You make the best of it. I’m going outside.”

  “Don’t!”

  “I’m sorry! I can’t hide in this hole while people outside are dying.”

  She ran into the bedroom.

  He lifted Noah into his playpen and followed her.

  Her suitcase was open on the bed and she hurriedly shoved clothes into it.

  “At least wait a few days to make sure it’s safe to travel.”

  “I’m going now!”

  She forced the suitcase closed and headed toward the infirmary where she could use the elevator. Ken carried Noah and followed while he continued trying to persuade her not to leave.

  “Are you sure you want to risk your baby’s life?” Dr. Wilson asked.

  “Noah’s staying with his father.”

  “I meant the child you’re carrying now.”

  A spark of hope filled Ken. He walked closer to her and took her hands in his. “Please stay, Alicia. Do it for our children.”

  She sank to the floor and sobbed. The doctor gave her a fetus safe sedative and led her to a patient room.

  “When did she take a pregnancy test?” Ken asked.

  “It’s standard procedure during a female physical, which she took late yesterday afternoon after complaining about feeling fatigued.”

  Ken absorbed the news of his wife’s depression, which Dr. Wilson said stemmed from missing the endorphins one absorbs from natural sunlight. When he told Wilson about her childhood experience with claustrophobia, the doctor agreed it contributed to her depression.

  He returned to monitoring information received from his world contacts. Collecting and disseminating the data via shortwave radio to survivors who didn’t have computer capabilities kept him busy until Alicia returned to their pod that evening.

  “What do you want for supper? I’ll cook.”

  “Nothing. I just want to go to bed.” She entered the bedroom and shut the door.

  He checked on Noah before following her into the bedroom. She already lay in bed, curled in a fetal position. He sat on the bed. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “If I hadn’t gotten you pregnant again, you’d be outside headed for some the sunlight.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Please le
ave.”

  As he left the room, he turned on the intercom to listen in on her. He opened the book Dr. Wilson loaned him about depression and spent most of the night reading while monitoring the state of the outside world.

  At six in the morning, the phone rang. He awoke, lifted his head up off the desk, and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Sir. It’s the south entrance.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your wife just left.”

  “Why didn’t you stop her?”

  “She had a gun and said if we tried to stop her, she’d shoot herself.”

  Ken fired up his monitors and zoomed an exterior security camera in on her. She wore a protective suit and climbed into a farm truck with a suitcase.

  He used the GPS locator to track her progress as she drove north. Occasionally, he managed to locate her on satellite. Each time she stopped for gas or let other survivors climb in the back of the truck he tried to call, but she didn’t pick up. With a good idea of where she headed, he made inquiries and found her lodging. Not until she reached a cold zone in South Dakota that he texted her about did she stop and call him.

  “Is this the right place?”

  “Yes. The owner’s son served with Dad.”

  “You should come join me.”

  “As much as I want to, I have to stay.” He looked at the statistics building up on his computer. He didn’t dare tell her the world population was down to a fourth of what it was before the nuclear accident. “I’ll call you every night. Let me know if you need anything.”

  She hung up and entered the bed and breakfast outside of Keystone.

  Ken grabbed a marker and stood up. He wrote Alicia’s name over the dove flying back with an olive branch in the painting of Noah and his ark on the wall above his desk. He prayed she would return someday, but deep down, he knew it was up to him to follow her once he trained someone how to run the satellite monitoring system.

  Shake, Rattle and Roll

  Roxanna Namey

  April 24, 1867 – 2 p.m.

  “I’m so glad the fashion is for fewer crinolines this year,” Effie thought as she scrutinized her appearance in the full-length framed mirror. “I hope John likes my new dress.”

  She put on the plainer of the two jackets she had ordered from the seamstress to coordinate with the mauve skirt. This one had long pagoda sleeves with a high neckline trimmed by tatting she had made herself. She leaned in to get a good look, being a little nearsighted and too vain to wear glasses except when reading.

  She checked the center part in her hair. Her long, slim fingers smoothed the texture to the nape of her neck where her low bun was coiled, making sure every hair was in place. Satisfied, she reached for the matching hat, adjusted it, then tied the wide ribbons securely under her cleft chin.

  She stepped outside into the sunshine and turned towards downtown to meet John outside Constitution Hall on South Kansas Avenue. Her step was light as she nearly danced down the street in anticipation of meeting “her John”.

  Effie crossed the street, being careful to keep her skirt as clean as possible. She spied John waiting down the block and raised her hand in recognition. Effie’s pace increased in anticipation of their lunch date.

  Wham!

  Effie found herself lying on the sidewalk. The ground shook violently.

  Whoosh!

  Flames shot out the door of the building next to her. She tried to regain her feet, but could not do so because of the stiff crinolines under her voluminous skirt.

  The shaking increased in intensity. Effie now lay prone in the middle of the street. She instinctively reached for her hat as she got tossed around.

  Fire erupted all around her. She felt heat on her face. Effie had just time to note the sound of screaming around her. Trails of flame crossed the street rapidly and kissed the hem of her skirt, setting it on fire.

  She heard more screaming, not realizing it was her own loud cries. The street surface moved in waves, like a rough sea. Buildings were crumbling. Bricks, glass and timber fell helter-skelter.

  Suddenly the earth split directly under Effie, creating a gaping grin along Kansas Avenue. She fell like Alice in Wonderland down the rabbit hole, disappearing into the fiery pit waiting to receive her body below.

  April 24, 2017 – 2 p.m.

  A tomato red compact car pulled alongside a sign beside the entrance to one of the driver’s planned scenic destinations. Ratchel was on her way to the state capital in Dodge City. The young, strawberry-haired driver checked her appearance in the rearview mirror and then pressed a button on the door. The window made a small whirring sound as it lowered so she could read the sign without glare:

  Welcome to Sunflower Canyon National Park

  Formed as the result of a catastrophic earthquake

  Which occurred at 2:22 p.m. on April 24, 1867

  Black Blizzard

  Vernon Neff

  Opening my eyes I can instantly feel the lingering dust in the air. A thin crusty layer coats my eyelashes. My mouth, and my nostrils are dry and gritty. Although it is uncomfortable, I have grown used to the feeling after all these years. Most people either wear masks or hang wet sheets around their bed to cut back on the dust while they sleep. I gave up on this practice a while ago; just seemed pointless. The dust always managed to find its way in to suffocate me while I dreamed.

  As I sit up in bed I look around the dismal room. Even in the dim light I can see the tiny particles floating in the air. Everything in the room has a light layer of dust and grime coating. It is hard to remember when this wasn’t normal, after five long years this has just became a way of life.

  I get up and look out the giant picture window in my room. There was once a time when I could see the Indian warrior upon the Topeka capitol dome but now he rarely makes an appearance. Today seems still and calming. So maybe the curtain of dust will fall to reveal the warrior with a deep blue sky as his backdrop. That is, until the next storm blows in, stealing him from view once again.

  If you have never witnessed these storms, I will admit they are fascinating and beautiful. They appear like giant tidal waves rolling across the landscape, stretching a mile into the air and canvassing every bit of ground in sight. Sometimes they even come in different colors depending on the winds carry them in. Grays, browns, blacks. I have even seen a red storm once, but regardless of color, the storms all act the same way. They grow, they move, until they engulf everything around you. These storms can cause your house to vibrate to the point where you think that everything is going to crash down onto you. The dust attacks your eyes, burning more with each blink. Then your mouth is attacked, drying it out. You try to spit out the dirt and what comes out looks like tobacco juice, thick and brown. Your lungs are then attacked, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Then the dust steals the light. People don’t understand darkness until they are in one of these storms. I remember one time not being able to see my hand, only inches from my face. Needless to say you don’t want to get caught outside in one of these storms. Not only does the air feel like it is blown from a hot furnace, but also the sand tears at your skin. There is a very real chance of becoming disoriented even in the most familiar places, and if you didn’t find shelter fast enough, you could very easily suffocate.

  After spending a few more seconds at the window, I move on into my dining room. There are four places set at the table even though I am alone. As I eat my breakfast of stale bread and water, I try not to focus on how it feels like I am chewing on sandpaper. Instead I look at the place settings with all of the plates and glasses turned upside down. Yet another worthless attempt to keep the dust at bay. Three of the settings used to belong to my wife and two children. Now their chairs sit empty, I miss them. For four year now those seats have sat empty. Four years since they sat at this table with me but I know they are better off back east with my parents. That was one of the hardest decisions to make, one that caused several arguments between me and my wife.

  �
�Just come with us,” she would scream, or “How could you be so stupid?” That was usually followed by her breaking down into tears.

  During those times I could only hold her. “It will be okay,” was all I could say. I guess at the time I actually believed in what I was saying.

  At first we all figured the drought wouldn’t last, that we could tough it out, or that things would get better. That was the reason I stayed. I wanted to ensure that when all of this ended my family had a place to come back to. It was amazing how quickly days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and so on. Unfortunately no one could have foreseen that instead of getting better, things would slowly get worse.

  The Red Cross came in at the beginning handing out masks, followed by other charities with food and water. Even the government stepped in and tried to do what they could by giving out canned food and some supplies. But none of those resources lasted long. As the drought got worse and conditions deteriorated, the help disappeared little by little until we were on our own.

  Then people began to get sick. Dust pneumonia is what they called it. The pneumonia mostly affected the very young and the very old, at least at first, but no one was truly safe from the effects. How could they be with all the dust? God only knew what else people inhaled on daily. This caused an alarming number of deaths. That wasn’t the only reason people died. Other diseases ran rampant. Without having proper medical care, a simple infection could quickly kill.

  I shake the thoughts from my head and grab the shovel that I keep by the front door. I shimmy through a window onto my front porch and look around. I can’t remember the last time I could tell where my yard stopped and the road began. Now everything is buried under several fine layers of sand and dirt. Not that it matters. No one has had a running car for at least three years now. The dust finally managed to choke the life out of all of them. Now they just litter the sides of the roads, half buried, like tombstones long forgotten. This pretty much ensures that mine and anyone else’s escape is impossible. I proceed to shovel a good foot of sand from my front porch. Finally I am able to open my front door and return inside.

  As I move into my living room I crank-start a record player. Picking a random record without looking, I blow off the dust and put it on the turntable. Music begins to fill the darkness. I sit down in my old recliner and light an oil lamp. I watch as the flame of the lamp dances in the darkness, almost as if it is listening to the music as well. I remember when all I had to do was flip a switch and I had light. How we took that kind of simple thing for granted! Electricity was a luxury that the storms also stole from us. As if the dust wasn’t bad enough, choking every living thing; the static electricity that came with the dry, unforgiving air wreaked havoc on every electronic device. All the things we were sure we could not live without now just sit in our houses like vintage decorations from a better time. All televisions, computers, game systems, and cell phones are nothing more than empty shells.