Quantum Storms - Aaron Seven

by Dennis Chamberland

  “My God, Dr. Dartmouth, is there anything that can save us?” the announcer asked, now proficiently voicing the question on the mind of each of his listeners. “Can we do anything at all? Do you and your scientist colleagues have any ideas? Can we somehow stop this cosmic disaster? Is it possible to mount some kind of solar shield over the planet? Can we disrupt the sun’s cycle somehow? What can we do to save ourselves? Surely, there must be something!”

  “Go deep, Francis; go deep and stay deep,” Karen responded, her smile now faded to reflect the face of her host.

  The announcer then shifted in his seat and eyed the camera. “I would like to introduce the Reverend Terrence Lancaster who is confident that the scientists are all wrong and the whole idea of quantum storms is simply science fiction. And, he adds that he has irrefutable proof. Reverend Lancaster, what do you have to offer us this morning?”

  “The Bible, Francis, and here it is,” he said, holding his high in the air.

  “You can turn it off now,” Frank Spencer said in disgust.

  “No, wait a minute,” Seven responded. “I want to hear this.”

  “The Bible is perfectly clear on end-time events,” Lancaster said with confidence, beaming a toothy smile through his portly, triple chinned face. “And none of this matches Biblical prophesy. This is not how God will destroy the earth and establish His millennial kingdom, so this can’t be happening; it’s all wrong. I’ve let my flock know in no uncertain terms that they should ignore this weird science and go on about their business normally. The only preparation they need to make is to prepare their feet with the good news of the gospel. I’ve preached many sermons warning my congregation against the evils of reading science fiction, and this is no exception. Why, this is just science fiction gone mainline and gone to seed. I’m sure than ten days from now, when we’re all happy and healthy and quite alive, that these scientist types will have a lot of explaining to do, and the ring-leaders, I hope, will face serious prosecution by the authorities.”

  The announcer looked into the camera and responded, “Thank-you, Reverend Lancaster. Let’s go now to one of your peers, the Reverend Lloyd Sunday in Seattle.”

  The camera view switched to another studio. “Reverend Sunday, you’re a believer, if we may use that term, in the quantum storms, and you’ve instructed your followers to seek shelter. Some rumors have it that your church is even building their own. How does this square with what Reverend Lancaster just said about the Biblical view of this disaster sweeping upon us all?”

  Reverend Sunday peered back into the camera looking thin, tired and worn. “To tell your flock not to prepare for disaster is selfish madness, Brother Lancaster, and I don’t mind telling you that to your face. Your people are all going to die with no hope and no protection. Secondly, while I‘m a firm believer in the irrefutable return of Christ, the Bible is sufficiently vague in just what generation that will happen, and in what way it will happen. There are at least half a dozen main line versions of the prophesy floating from church to church and that’s not to mention the dozen or so other lesser theories.

  “I have my own theory, and that’s to be prudent, to listen to the good advice of folks with a lot more education in these matters than I, and to prepare my church to come out on the other side with the good news of the gospel you spoke of, Brother Lancaster. Having faith is necessary. Loving the appearance of the Master is important, and one generation one day will see Him appear in all His glory with all His angles. But denying the gift of adequate warning sent by God Himself is unforgivable. He has always prepared and ensured a remnant will survive His judgments, and there’ll be a remnant from this one. The flood of fire has begun, Reverend Lancaster, and you’ve failed to build the ark your people so desperately need. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  Reverend Lancaster’s face exploded in sincere amusement, all three chins bobbing in synchronized waves as he laughed heartily. “What you need is a good night’s rest, Brother Sunday. And may I suggest that when your flock finds out they went to all that trouble to hide in whatever cave you’ve dug for them out there on the west coast - or should I say, the left coast - that you’re also going to have a lot of explaining to do. And as far as my millennial theory being wrong, let me just say that I do not preach theories, only what God has said in His Word and only how He said it. There’s only one take on the Gospel, and that’s the right one, just as God wrote it down clearly and unmistakably for all who have eyes to see! I’m sorry you can’t see that, or should I say – I’m sorry God hasn’t revealed it to you personally as He has to me.

  “And there’s one last point that I want everyone to hear,” Lancaster said with his most sincere preacher’s face. Then he pointed his finger at the camera, pausing masterfully for full effect. “They said the storms began hours ago. Well, before I went on the air with you, I took a walk outside my office just to stand and watch the sunrise. The sunrise over our Virginia campus was just as beautiful as any God has ever created. The birds were singing and the glory of God’s creation was coming through right along with the sunshine. And guess what, Francis, I feel just fine. Do you feel fine?”

  “This guy is seriously too stupid to live,” Twink said reflexively. “What you’re witnessing is natural selection in progress.”

  “Shhh…” Edgar warned.

  The image switched back to the announcer’s desk. “Well, if we only have a few days left, I don’t think there will still be enough time to get to the end of that debate,” he said with a cheeky wink. “But at least we’ll all see which one of these guys is right soon enough. Now on to Sandy Lighter at the White House desk to see what the President had to say this morning.”

  “Now you can turn it off,” Seven responded.

  “No wait,” Spencer responded, his eyes now glued to the screen.

  “As you said earlier, the President’s first act after receiving the news was to declare permanent martial law across the country, which doesn’t change a thing since martial law has been a way of life for all Americans for months now,” the reporter began.

  “See… great minds…” Twink whispered.

  “The President was informed of the start of the storms at his undisclosed shelter location. As far as where that location is, most thought it would be at the government’s quasi-secret Mount Weather, Virginia location, others thought it would be Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado Springs, but it’s now widely believed that the President has chosen to ride out the storms at another quasi-secret location in the Tennessee mountains with his quantum storms chief, Dr. Raylond Desmond. As you might imagine, it’s difficult to hide someone as visible as the President, and many hints, signs and leaks all point to a rather unusual shelter called ‘Middlearth’ by its residents, or R29 by the government. No cameras are allowed in Middlearth and there are no reporters allowed in to film, but it’s believed to be a rather huge cavern deep underground with all the amenities of a luxury resort. It’s little wonder why the President would choose such a place for what may turn out to be a long term period of isolation.”

  “Sandy, we heard that militias have full control over large sections of the country. Has the President made any comments on that?”

  “No, he’s been silent on that and, of course, his last news conference was ages ago, long before any of that began. But it’s no secret – some very large portions of the nation are silent. From the Cascade region, down to sections of northern California, out across much of the Dakotas and down into the central portion of the country – there hasn’t been much word. There are scattered reports of militia control since the National Guard and local police forces have, for the most part, abandoned their duties to stay at home and protect their families. It’s not a comforting thought, but here tonight, as across the rest of the world, civilization, as we knew it, has faded before the first effects of the storms even begin.”

  “Mute the sound,” Seven ordered. “We can stand here and soak up the news for hours, but let’s get a plan together. Tw
ink, make sure all the recorders are operational and continuously record the six major U.S. and European news outlets so the rest of Pacifica can catch up in the morning.”

  “It’s already done, boss. I started recording at full capacity as soon as I heard the news.”

  “Good. At 0600 wake everyone up with an announcement I’ll prepare immediately. Probably most of the community will have heard it by then anyway. It’s pointless to wake everyone now. At 0800 I’ll need a briefing in conference room twelve on the effects we can expect at Pacifica. I realize that as the senior oceanographer here I may be giving most of the briefing, but we need to focus our teams, and focus them now. The fewer surprises we have the better our chances are going to be. I also want daily briefing reports by each of the nine teams: oceanography, astrophysics, power, engineering, station keeping, food, communications, defense and geopolitics. I need the reports on my computer at high noon every day – two concise pages, that’s all; I don’t have all day to read reports and the teams don’t have all day to write them.”

  “Boss, one question,” Twink asked with a severe look painted on his face.

  “Go ahead,” Seven responded.

  “The storms, they started hours ago, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, I feel just fine. Do you feel just fine?” Twink whined, mimicking Reverend Lancaster as he twisted his face into that of a child asking his father for some reassurance.

  Serea snickered lightly as Edgar shot him a withering look. Spencer turned and walked away in unspoken disgust.

  “Cut it out, Twink,” Seven responded with a weak smile. “Save your humor for a better time.” Then he paused and reconsidered. “Well,” he said after the awkward moment, “I guess I can’t think of a better time myself. And so I’ll answer your question: yes, actually, I feel just fine.”

  “Then that can only mean one thing: it means you screwed up and are totally wrong. You scientist types were just trying to pull the wool over our eyes all along, huh, ‘cause I feel fine and you feel fine so the calibrated ‘fine’ scale is all we need. Screw the meters and the models, ‘cause all we need’s the fine scale,” Twink mimicked mockingly.

  “Twink, get a grip, will you?” Serea said through her laughter.

  “Hey, that guy started his own university based on the totally fine scale. So now I believe in fine, don’t you?”

  “Twink, don’t you have something to do? Some report to write, some sleep to catch up on?” Seven asked.

  Twink looked momentarily embarrassed, then replied, “Sorry, but I couldn’t help but compare my meager state of affairs to the Reverend standing out under the Virginia sunrise, soaking up the rays and feeling just fine.”

  “Perhaps you should feel pity for him,” Edgar suggested sincerely.

  “No. I reserve pity for the several thousand graduates of his university who’ll see the process of natural selection they were taught was a scientific fairy tale played out in their much abbreviated lives. He may feel fine now, but in three or four days, according to Saint Paul himself, the Reverend will ‘know as he is known’.”

  34

  Three days after the storm commenced, the green hills of earth were gone forever. Every forest, every green glade, every grassy slope, every flower, every leaf on earth lay withered and dead. On Concharty Mountain, half an hour before sunset as the moment of danger had finally passed for that day, Warren and his companions cautiously left their cave to begin a survey of their mountain. What they witnessed was a landscape of pervasive Faustian horror.

  The leaves of the deciduous tree had not yet lost their moisture and become brittle, but each leaf hung lifeless from its branch. Their colors were uniformly an appalling greenish-grey, lending the appearance of widespread death, not a natural autumnal process at all. The leaves of the few scattered conifers held their green more stalwartly, but they, too, were wilted and hung down as they had given way to their own irrevocable end. Indeed, there was nothing at all natural about the scene of ultimate finality that was reflected in the light of this most bitter sunset.

  “Let’s climb up the ridge over there toward the tower,” Wattenbarger said, leading ahead of the trio in his usual hyperkinetic style. “From the ridge we can see all the way to the river.”

  “Keep your voice down!” Warren warned, reflexively clutching his boxy 9mm Glock slung inside his belt. Before they left the security of Miller’s cave, they had agreed to be as stealthy as possible. If they knew the safe times to be out and about, others would as well.

  “Look!” Charles said in a hoarse whisper, pointing just a few feet to the right of his feet. There on the ground sat a squirrel staring directly at them. The small animal just stood his ground, hunched over, as Charles moved slowly toward him. Wattenbarger expected the creature would soon dash to safety, but it did not move.

  “Radiation sickness,” Warren explained. “It’s dying.”

  Charles bent over the small mammal that seemed to be staring beyond him. He picked up a stick and nudged the animal yet it did not move.

  Warren could see the squirrel breathing rapidly, so he reached down, picked it up and looked at it, eye to eye. The creature appeared to be healthy in every respect; it just seemed to be frozen in some immovable stasis. With a sweeping motion, he gripped the animal by the head and swung it quickly over the back of his hand, snapping its neck.

  “Didn’t want it to suffer, that’s fine,” Charles remarked, sadly eyeing the furry beast lying lifeless in Warren ’s hand.

  “Not exactly. We’re going to have meat for dinner, friends, and this little critter is going to line one of my gloves for winter,” Warren laughed, as he tucked the animal under his belt.

  “You’re gonna eat a sick animal? On purpose?” Charles said, his face contorted with disgust. “Go ahead, I’ll stick to my beanie-weeneis.”

  “It’s not really sick-sick, Lance,” Wattenbarger explained. “Radiation sickness means that the radiation has attacked its biological integrity and caused its systems and organs to fail. There are no actual microscopic organisms involved – no extra-organism pathology.”

  “You mean its sick but it’s still okay to eat? I don’t get it,” Charles responded.

  “You don’t have to get it, Lance. You just have to eat it,” Warren replied impatiently. “Remember that food is our critical stockpile. We can live here in our little cave indefinitely, but when the food runs out, we die, period. And in case you haven’t been paying attention, it’s not like we can just set up a garden and grow our own greens, and the local livestock is mostly already dead. So save your beanie-weenies, you’re gonna need them later, I can promise you.”

  They walked up toward the ridge and in but a few feet, they discovered another squirrel and a rabbit, both panting heavily, both in their death throes, just as the previous animal had been. Warren quickly dispatched these as well, tucking them into his belt. “We’re gonna have us a feast tonight!” he said, his face beaming.

  Both Wattenbarger and Charles just stared back at him without speaking. It was obvious they did not know what to say. Warren could read it in their eyes.

  “Look, folks, this is harvest time,” Warren said. “There will never be another. After this harvest is over, we may never eat meat again, ever. Right now there’s meat and fur just sitting around waiting to be harvested, so we need to take advantage of this while there’s yet time.”

  “But… but they’re defenseless,” Charles said piteously.

  “No, Lance, they’re dying. By this time tomorrow, they’ll all be dead,” Warren responded. “As you said before, I’m ending their suffering and, in the process, I’m keeping us alive!”

  “Yeah, and if we don’t get ‘em now, tomorrow’ll be too late,” Wattenbarger added.

  “I knew you were gonna say that,” Warren replied.

  “What?”

  “Why is tomorrow gonna be too late?” Warren quizzed.

  “Because if they die tonight, they’re gonna b
e spoiled by tomorrow, of course, and they’ll be unsafe to eat,” Wattenbarger replied.

  “Ah! Wrong you are!” Warren replied with a satisfied grin.

  An understanding look suddenly appeared over Wattenbarger’s face. “Okay, alright, now I see, you’re correct,” he said, nodding his head.

  “What?” Charles asked, still lost.

  “The radiation, it sterilizes everything, including the bacteria that causes spoilage,” Wattenbarger responded.

  “With one exception,” Warren replied. “And that’s all the animals that die early tonight. The radiation field still isn’t strong enough to actually kill every microorganism - and it only takes a small percentage to cause spoilage. So, for the next day or so, some animals may spoil before sunrise. But in two days time, there’ll be no more spoilage.”

  “So we can just leave ‘em here and come back and pick ‘em up whenever we want?” Charles asked.

  “No,” Warren responded.

  “Why not?” Charles inquired, now totally confused.

  “Desiccation,” Wattenbarger replied. “The meat will dry out fairly quickly.”

  “I believe that’s correct,” Warren agreed. “Dead animals will literally mummify but won’t rot.”

  “Does that include humans?” Charles rejoined.

  “Yep,” Warren responded.

  “A whole planet full of corpses that can’t rot? Billions of mummies - everywhere?” Charles recounted, his face reflecting the horror of that thought.

  “Yep, perfectly preserved as long as the quantum storms continue, and perhaps longer. If the planet’s actually totally sterilized, there won’t be any bacteria to return.”