“I don’t know Anna. Taking control of the power supply is a pretty big task, but if they can do it, then all of South London is in serious trouble. That must be their angle.”
“Shit. Well, we grabbed the hard drives from all the computers before we got out. Hopefully that stalls them.”
“Good thinking. Hey, did you contact the green team yet?”
“No, let me pull Liam up on the line with us.”
“Hello?” A shaky whisper.
“Hello, Liam? It’s Anna.”
“Anna. Hi. You okay?”
“Yes. Did you get your team out yet?”
“We’re close. We managed to put in all the required calls, and we were halfway down the west hall when shots were fired. We’re hiding in the storage closet. There’s only three of us.”
“Did you see if anyone was hurt?” Gregor asked, “Charlie? Is he okay?”
“I don’t know, man. I didn’t see anything, just heard the gun go off. It was loud, lots of people were shouting.”
“Christ. What can you hear now?”
“It sounds like they’re combing the cubicles. There’s at least ten of them, probably more. Two or three guys that sound like they’re in charge. They noticed the hard drives were missing. Whose idea was that?”
“Mine,” affirmed Anna.
“Smart. Pissed ‘em off. But smart.”
“Are you going to be able to make it to the exit?”
“Don’t know. Let’s see.”
The phone went quiet for a moment; only the sound of his breathing came through. He was opening the storage room door.
“I don’t see anyone. Oh, wait. Yep. There’s two near the front,” he whispered, “but everyone else is gone. They’re probably heading your way, Greg. It’s the biggest hallway.”
He felt the fear grip his throat. “We’re ready.”
“I think we’re going to try for the back doors while we have the chance. I’m going to leave my phone on, but putting it in my pocket. Okay?”
“Good luck, Liam.”
“Be safe, everyone.”
Then everything muffled over, like they’d been dropped into a tank of water. They could hear whispers, shuffling, the sounds of rustling and fabrics and the squeak of a rubber sole, then a loud rhythmic rushing sound. He must be running.
Suddenly, there was a metallic clunk; they’d reached the door. Then came the sounds of air, gravel being thrown aside as they moved, sirens from far away. Gregor had to remind himself to breathe he was so engrossed in listening. There were more rushing noises and two indiscernible shouts. Then a loud scratching noise.
“Guys? You there?”
“Yes!” Anna and Gregor breathed in unison.
“We’ve just made it out, but it was close. I think someone saw us. We’re going to keep running. I’m getting another call. Gotta go.”
“Wait!”
The other line went dead. Anna sighed.
“Greg, keep me on the line, okay?”
“Yes. But I’m going to put you in my pocket too. We’ve got to round up some pipes or something.”
“Okay.”
“Hey.”
“What?”
“It’ll all be over soon, Anna.”
“Yeah.”
Gregor slid his mobile into his front khaki pocket and turned to face his companions.
“Okay. They might be heading our way. I’m going to go out and look for anything we can arm ourselves with. Arthur, you come with me. You four stay here. Owen, if they come through those doors,” he pointed, “lock this gate. Keep yourselves safe. Got it?”
“You’re barking mad if you think I’d just leave you two out there.”
“Owen. Come on. It’s protocol.”
“Well, fuck protocol.”
“Jesus. Fine. Just stay here for now.”
The two men slid the rolling cage door just wide enough to squeeze through, flicking on their phone flashlights to illuminate the concrete floor. He knew there was a tool bag somewhere over towards the wall, feeling his way along the scratchy bricks. Finally his toe slammed against something.
“Arthur! Hey!” he whispered, picking up the heavy bag. “Take this. Go back to the cage. Give everyone a wrench or something.”
“And where do you think you’re going?”
“I think I saw a pipe up ahead. I’m gonna grab it and come back to meet you. Go on.”
The younger man heaved the bag and turned to jog as best as he could back to the rest of their team. Gregor was alone. He heard the rattling of the cage door. But wait, that was coming from the wrong direction. The cage was back to his left. He spun around, using his hands on the wall to guide the way until he spotted that flashing red light. The noise was coming from just below it—the double doors. Someone was trying to get in.
8. March 8, 2017. 6:29 P.M. Istanbul, Turkey.
Altan and Sule stopped to take a collective breath before approaching their friends’ home. The estate was expansive, with whitewashed walls broken in spots by tall iron gates, twin pairs of palms lining the driveway and walkways, and three jeweled water fountains. There was no amount of riches, though, that could overpower the dense feeling of sorrow that hung in the air. In their arms lay a feast that Sule had immediately started on the moment she’d hung up with her husband earlier that day. Spiced lamb meatballs, cucumber-mint yogurt, hot pita bread, and baklava all lent their scents to the evening breeze. It was the least they could do, when there was nothing else to be done.
The beautiful matriarch opened the front door, draped in black, her eye kohl obviously having been recently touched up. It barely concealed the redness there. Three children hung from her clothes, their faces blank with confusion.
“Lale. Let us come in. We’ve brought you some food.” They bowed slightly, revealing their gifts.
“Oh Sule. Thank you.” Her voice crackled in her throat.
Their footsteps echoed in the roomy entryway, their shoes clicked against the tile. Slowly they were relieved of their baskets as the children deposited them in the kitchen down the hall. Altan bent to kiss the cheek of his best friend’s wife, but it wasn’t until Sule wrapped her in a hug that she resumed her crying.
“Shh, shh. It’s okay, Lale. Come sit.”
They parked themselves on the two silk settees, trying to comfort the new widow.
“Tell us what happened.”
She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with a white handkerchief.
“It was the bridge. Otoyol 1. Collapsed today. Mehmet was there.”
Altan knew where it was. He’d crossed the bridge many times on his way East to inspect the fields.
“It just collapsed?” asked Sule.
“No, no, no. Bombs!” she wailed into her hand.
It was as he’d predicted after seeing the report on the news. They had refused to place blame on any one group, saying that the bridge simply collapsed early that morning, but he knew differently. It was the rebels, and it meant that they were getting closer to the heart of Istanbul.
“I thought so, Lale. I’m so sorry.” He grasped her free hand, holding it firmly in his own.
“Mehmet! My Mehmet! Why? Now I am all alone!”
“You still have us,” Sule nudged her gently, “We can help. Cook you food. Watch the kids.”
“Thank you for this,” she blotted her eyes again, “since I will have to fire our staff now. No money for these things anymore.”
“Will there be a service?” Altan was trying to find a gentle way to ask.
“We might have something here at the house, but they haven’t pulled all the bodies out yet.”
She confirmed his suspicion. It was impossible to follow traditional rituals if the body hasn’t been recovered. The possibility must have been weighing heavily on Lale, adding stones to her pile of grief. It would be a terrible omen if Mehmet’s remains were never found.
“You will let us know? Let us help.”
“Of course.” Her tears had ceased on
ce again. “Thank you for the food.”
“You’re welcome. I know cooking is the last thing on your mind right now.”
The oldest child, a girl of thirteen, burst into the sitting area.
“Anne, the computer isn’t working again!”
“Like last time?” There was a hint of fear in her mother’s voice.
“Yes! Come see.”
All three of them rose to follow the girl into the den. Sure enough, the computer screen was blue, a warning in Turkish flashing repeatedly in yellow. It wasn’t unusual for the government to restrict the internet access of the citizens, but this was something more. Perhaps the work of hackers or an organized media shutdown. Altan whipped out his mobile phone, eyed an apology to his wife. He had to check something.
“Sule.”
“What is it, Altan?”
“We need to go.”
9. March 8, 2017. 11:40 A.M. Oxnard, California.
The sky was clearer that day, the smoke having moved on, having broken its body into a million tiny pieces, floating up towards the sun. But the road had a fresh ashy layer, as did the roofs of all the abandoned houses. The truck bed and trash bins were coated with a fine grey chalk, and everything reeked of fire, of death.
It was eerily quiet now that their neighbors were gone and the girls were at school. Matias had spent three hours waiting at the day-labor pick up site, hoping for even the smallest menial job. But nobody came. It was like either the bosses and contractors had left town or they were drinking the poisonous fear of a labor uprising. He wasn’t interested in an uprising. He just wanted work.
Defeated, he had turned back for home, but stopped at the church on the corner, the one with the cracking adobe and weathered crosses, the one whose wooden benches creaked under the weight of a hundred migrants every week. He walked to the front altar and lit a candle, kneeling on the pad to pray to Our Lady. He looked up at her face; a beacon of calm and peace surrounded by a golden halo, and clasped his hands together. He knew She was listening. She was always listening.
Teresa was still asleep on the chair with the blanket around her shoulders when he got home. Their old Chihuahua, Junior, was nestled in the crook of her arm, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He bent to kiss her forehead, then busied himself with ridding their tiny home of the smoke and ash, trying his best to not make noise. The broom quietly scratched its way across the floor, followed by the mop and then by the wiping of the cabinets and shaking out of the linens. He opened the windows, allowing the toxic air to be replaced by fresh that rode in on the warm afternoon breeze. When at last he was satisfied, Matias pulled on his boots and walked down the road to the field.
It was as desolate as one could imagine, a giant grooved rectangle of blackened dirt. He bent to scoop up a handful and the tiny granules sifted easily through his fingers. Among the rows he could see the skeleton of the irrigation system, tiny patches of darkened dirt lying beneath the joints. He touched the pipe and brought a wet, cool finger to his lips. There was obviously still water running through the field, but who had left it on? Or had someone turned it on recently? He hadn’t seen anyone around all day, except the odd onlooker, and he was convinced that the bosses had left for good. This was unfortunate, as they were decent men to work for, or at least weren’t miserable to work for. He knew they owned another farm on the other side of town. Maybe he’d check there later today.
His melancholy reverie was interrupted by a loud cracking noise behind him, almost like gunfire. He crouched out of habit and spun around. He started running back towards the house, his stomach in knots. Teresa was at home by herself. What if she was right? They had come for them next? As he rounded the neighbor’s house, he glimpsed a gold Cadillac, its rims still gleaming despite the dust. There were two men stalking around the outside of his house, peering in windows, wearing white wifebeaters and jeans that sagged, blue boxers clearly visible. Sunlight bounced off the chains on their necks, occasionally catching in his eye and blinding him. Suddenly the taller one turned and spotted him and started walking towards him with huge angry strides. He pulled a handgun out from behind his back and stuck it in Matias’s face.
“Hey! Hey! What you think you’re doing motherfucker? Huh?”
He waved the pistol around wildly, twisting it sideways.
“Whoa whoa. This is my house.” He nodded towards the door.
“Your house eh?”
“Si. Mi casa. Can I help you boys with something?”
The man holding the gun looked to be maybe nineteen, twenty at most. His neck and forearms were covered in tattoos, but it was the smattering of smaller ink on his face that made him look menacing. Three teardrops on the left cheek, a tiny cross on the right. Matias knew what those symbols meant. The other, shorter man had come over to join his partner, showing a similar array of body decoration, but held his gun down at his side. He had a blue bandanna wrapped around his shaved head, glistening with sweat. They both seemed a little unprepared to run into anyone and their bodies were fierce with defensive posturing.
“Help with something man? Yeah. Get the fuck outta our way.”
His companion laughed and tugged at his baggy pants, swiped his nose with his left thumb.
“Listen. I don’t know what you boys want, but I’ve got nothing. Nada.” The older man held up his hands in mock surrender. “It’s just me and my wife here. Everyone else left.”
“Aw, your wife bro?” He looked over his shoulder at the little plaster house and his face broke into a wicked sideways smile. “Let’s see. Come on. I’m sure she’d like what we can give her.”
He grabbed his crotch in a lewd gesture, nodding to his friend who made a similar threatening move.
“Ay, Mami,” his friend purred, wiggling his hips. They both laughed.
Matias wasn’t about to let some young gangbangers talk about his wife like that. Even if there was still a gun pointed in his direction. He felt the rage boil up under his skin, his pulse pounding against his temples. He didn’t bother to calculate his next move. What else did he have left to lose? His body moved, not as quickly as it used to, but quickly enough, his hands flying forward. They caught the assailant in the chest and he pushed him up against the tinted windows of the Cadillac. The gun was wedged between the two men’s bodies, but luckily not in a position to do much damage. The compatriot’s gun, however, was now pressed up against Matias’s temple.
“What the fuck man?” The young man yelled into his face, taken off guard.
“What is your name son?”
He was met with silence, but pushed into him harder.
“Huh? I can’t hear you? What is your name?”
“Ruben.”
“Ruben, why you threatening my wife? Huh? She’s sick. What kind of little fucker are you?”
“Sorry, man. I’m sorry.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“They call me Smiley,” the short one answered, his gun still raised.
“What you boys doing here? Huh? What do you want? Money?”
“We’re just looking around man.”
“Sure you were.”
“Come on, let me go,” he whined up against the hot car.
“There’s nothing here. No money. No food. No drugs. I think it’s time you boys left.”
Matias lessened the pressure against the man’s chest and took a step away. Smiley was still standing to his side, but he could see that his hand was shaking slightly. These were just kids. Kids out to prove themselves. Cowards looking for easy prey. Ruben shook himself off, adjusted his shirt, and shoved his gun into the back of his pants.
“Come on, Smiley. This fucker’s loco.”
But his friend didn’t move, his sights still set on Matias as he stepped further away from the car. Ruben opened the front door and slid in with an angry scowl on his face.
“Get in man. Let’s go.”
Finally the gun was lowered and Matias breathed a little deeper. He crossed his arms and stood there unti
l the last of the dust kicked up by their tires had settled back to earth.
10. March 9, 2017. 3:19 A.M. London, England.
Gregor felt another bead of sweat roll down his forehead. His head was throbbing and his whole body was cramped from sitting on the concrete floor, limbs pressed up against the metal grate. It rattled loudly as he shook out of his tortured slumber. There was still fresh blood seeping from his hand, staining the white bandages. His stomach was in knots from the lack of nourishment. There was still water running from the taps but the only food was from the half-empty vending machine down the hall. Stale chips and candy bars could only go so far when you’ve got thirteen hostages to feed.
They’d taken his cell phone, which Gregor honestly felt was the worst part of all. He’d been unable to contact his wife, his children; unable to patch back through to Anna. He had no idea if she was still okay or even in the building anymore. The coworkers had lost contact yesterday afternoon when the takeover of Battersea Water and Power had been successful. Their captors were surprisingly adept despite their young and brash appearances; they seemed to have a highly intelligent plan in place in order to exact the necessary control to achieve their ends. Those ends were yet to be fully illuminated, but they seemed to encircle the ideas of wealth distribution and government corruption. They’d seen the opportunity and seized it. Unfortunately, there were bound to be casualties along the way. So far the damage tally included two overhead electric lines and one security guard.
Yesterday afternoon seemed like a dream, or something straight from the pages of a crime thriller. His chain around the generator room doors had bought him just enough time to hide, although not enough time to make it back to his team. They’d shot open the doors and pushed inside: two older guys made for the generators themselves while four others searched the perimeter, looking for stragglers. The rebels had found the cage first where two women and one man cowered in the dark, clutching wrenches behind their backs in their sweaty palms. Owen and Arthur had stationed themselves elsewhere throughout the giant warehouse room, ready to pick off the intruders as they came in. Gregor had shimmied himself behind a cooling tank along the side of the safety station. Ensconced in brick and metal, he’d waited with his breath in his throat as heavy footsteps prodded around. He could hear the clanking of guns and pipes similar to the one he’d held in his hand.
72 Hours till Doomsday Page 3
