by James Kiehle
After a few blocks and close to his home, Russ noticed that the Safeway sign was fully lit, Open 24 Hours, and he headed for it, praying their deli counter was still open. Perry hadn’t eaten since breakfast—only nibbled at that— and felt lightheaded.
The big parking lot was full. Some people sat in their cars, just waiting to enter, furiously honking their horns, while dozens of others anxiously waited to seize a parking spot. A few simply double-parked as someone else ran inside the store. Evidently fed up or inspired, others abandoned their cars in line and ducked inside.
Russ thought: What on Earth?
Within the store, under eerily dimmed lighting, Russ found the market a subdued asylum. The piped-in music was something by Gordon Lightfoot or Jim Croce, Time In A Bottle, he thought. Hundreds of locals filled the store, all with the same vacant expression, as if doped up on Valium or simply exhausted from the shocks of recent days. Shopping carts were lined ten-deep at each of the checkout stands and piled high with merchandise as if Christmas shopping. Still, people spoke in whispers, not in shouts, or if at all.
Russ found the ambiance spooky.
The cellphone made a noise. A text from Maggie Chapin.
It read. Claude on way home early. Free for now. Last chance to link up.
Russ closed the phone and didn’t answer her.
He arrived at the deli counter expecting a queue but instead found the area closed, its display cases barren of delicacies. Scouring the rest of the store for something easy to make at home, Russ discovered the aisles almost devoid of anything edible. Shelves where cans normally lined up were empty. All the fresh fruits and vegetables had been ransacked and the meat department had only tripe and tongue and parts of an octopus still in its bins.
Russ had no idea why these people seemed to be panicking, stocking up. The mayor’s diatribe?
He noticed Marv Truckee, a friend from the hardware store, and moved towards him.
“Hey, Marv, why all the weirdness here?”
Truckee stared at him with that almost-angry, almost-confused look he usually had and said, “Wait, aren’t you with a newspaper? Don’t you know the news?”
“I’ve been walking around,” Russ said. “Worried about my girls.”
“So you don’t know about the meteor that hit Canada?”
“Say again. What?” Russ asked, suddenly understanding the panic in the store and apparently everywhere south of the US/Canada border.
“Up in BC, five hundred miles from the Ice Shelf. Bastard is probably gonna break, if it hasn’t already. It’s the end, Russ. It’s all over.”
19. Waikiki
Judy and Iris raced down the hall, knocking on the doors of other travelers from the school, but no one was there. At Caryn White’s room, her door was slightly open, so Judy stepped inside. A maid was tidying up and didn’t smile when she looked up.
“Where are the people?” Judy asked. Everything appeared to be gone. “The group that was here.”
“The people? They checked out a half hour ago,” the maid shrugged.
Judy was incredulous. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure? The room is empty. Yes, I am sure.”
“Did they say where they were going?”
The maid nodded. “They had to catch their flight. Their last chance, the woman said. She was rude to me. Didn’t even leave me a tip. Real battleaxe.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
Iris tugged on Judy’s sleeve, “They’re gone? I thought they had our backs? Why wouldn’t they call?”
“The phones are out,” the maid suggested.
“What are we going to do?”
Judy said, “Get the hell out of Dodge.”
Leading Iris down the hall, Judy pressed the elevator button and a moment later the doors opened. Two people frantically jumped out but the car was still full. Inside, people chattered but no one tried to hold the door for them, though one man shrugged apologetically as the doors slammed shut.
They walked down the fifteen flights and weren’t alone, as a stream of others tailed them or lead them. In the lobby—crazy town. Lines of angry people trying to check out, looking lost, waiting for someone—who knew? Judy and Iris barely made it out through the revolving doors and into an equally surreal scene of near pandemonium on the street. Frightened people vied for cabs or were running across the street or just wandering aimlessly. The car horns that blared were loud, annoying and inexplicable.
No one was going anywhere.
Iris found a municipal cement tree-bed a half block down where they could sit for a moment. Neither of them said anything for a long while, just took in a view of humans in turmoil, ruminating on their state.
It’s like a horror movie, Judy thought.
People suckize, thought Iris.
•
Ravenous, Russ searched the kitchen cabinets and the fridge and found several cans of soup and chili, plus miscellaneous boxes of crackers and cereal, all of which he was profoundly thankful for. In the freezer, he discovered two Sara Lee ham and cheese calzones which he microwaved, then threw onto a paper plate.
He ate without tasting, sat in front of the TV, rubbing his eyes and face.
He needed a shave. Hoping it would calm him down to do something so normal, he went into the bathroom and ran the electric razor over his face.
In the wake of the meteors, the world seemed to go crazy. There was barely time to journalistically cover what they could of the meteors, let alone read all the news crawls on the bottom of the screen.
Perry, like the rest of the planet, couldn’t keep up with the news, but sat on the couch trying. Glued to the tube, spinning the dial, watching with dropped jaw and shaking head as minor battles raged throughout the world.
Riots in Berlin and Bogota. Terrorist bombs in Paris and Athens and Rome. Neo-Nazi’s on rampages, burning immigrant’s shops in Munich and Moscow.
It was hard to say what the lead news story would have been on a normal day. Trucks and busses had been overturned and set afire in Seattle. That would have certainly been a main story. The National Guard had to be called out in Chicago, while homemade bombs leveled government buildings in Denver. Those, too, would have led an average day’s news.
But for now it seemed only two worldwide stories really mattered.
Taiwan.
The Meteor.
But here in Bend?
The Ice Shelf.
•
Rationally, Judy knew that the airport was out of the question, and didn’t believe that there was undersea rail service from Honolulu to Bend, but the idea of ships, not necessarily the big passenger ones, but maybe someone’s boat could at least take them elsewhere, somewhere not as apt to get bombed.
Judy said, “Let’s figure out where to walk. Do you have the map?”
“Yeah, here,” Iris answered and pulled one out. “Proud of me for taking that along? Huh? Using the old noodle.”
Judy smiled, “Yep, I’d say it’s one of your greatest accomplishments.”
Iris pretended to punch her mom’s arm. “What about my language? The Izeings?”
“A far distant second.”
Judy studied the map and eventually discovered the best route, though she had to look up and past the hordes to get her bearings several times. “Okay, the docks.”
“The docks?” Iris said. “Do we even know where they are?”
Judy pointed, then changed the angle. “There, I think.”
Iris stood up, adjusted her back pack and said, “We better get moving then.”
Judy, despite herself, had to smile. “You. Are. Right, Fearless Leader—” she began to say, rising.
“To the docks,” Iris called out theatrically. “Full steam—”
Then a boy’s voice called from nearby. “Iris!”
They turned. A slightly chubby, round-faced kid was racing up to them, out of breath, blushing.
“I saw you from over there, in the van. It’s me, Arnold.”
Iris looked blank. “Arnold Lind? From the pool, you know, the other day?”
“Of course, sure, I remember,” Iris beamed, blushing a little herself. “Sorry, I was a little fuzzy, what with nearly drowning and all. Mom, this is the boy who saved me from—.”
“Drowning. Right, I recall. Vividly. Well—”
Arnold interrupted and said quickly, “Listen, my folks got a van and there are two extra seats. I asked them to wait when I saw you. We might be able to help you. Want to ride with us?”
“To where?” Judy asked.
“Pier 71,” Arnold said.
•
For Liang Huatian, there were only two pieces of good news from what happened after Operation Gau Bie was set in motion.
First, the complex electronic warfare attack only partly worked; the commands issued from the Third Department in Datong weren’t sent in time and affected only the targeted USS Catalina and, regrettably, the super secret ZCF-111 with his niece at the controls.
Second, the expected detonation of six nuclear-tipped satellites did not go off instantly—they were inadvertently set on a timer. In six hours they would ignite and worldwide communications networks would collapse.
Now Liang Huatian, until a few moments ago the most powerful man in China, was in paralyzed shock. The crowded room in Nanjing, headquarters not only for the Taiwan attack but the entire senior command, was filled with the highest echelons of the military elite who stood with heads bowed in silence as they considered the extent of the mistake. The phone rang insistently—calls from the president of the PRC ignored out of shame.
The defense minster turned to Xiong, his aide, and the reason the phone was ringing off the hook.
“What have you done?” Liang asked.
Xiong, coming out of a daze, did not understand the question.
“Sir?” he asked.
Liang stared at him, tried to fathom how a argument—no, a conversation—had been misconstrued to mean launch all the missiles and, worse, to detonate the security satellites high in space, and even worse than that, set off a cyber attack guaranteed to disrupt all—everything. These were strategies of last resort. But this fool, this Shaguā, did the unthinkable.
Xiong had set in motion Gau Bie, bringing with it the end of the world.
The minister, and everyone else for that matter, believed that China’s rigid command and control procedures would prevent such a horrifying event. The fact that this spoiled, rich scion to a once-great family, proof that gene pools wither, had simply turned two keys, put in some numbers and codes and then pushed a button, with it unleashing a torrent of bombardment and devastation never seen in the history of mankind, was incomprehensible.
A mistake so profound…
“You said to fire them all,” Xiong said, not really apologizing, losing all sense of station. “I did as I was told. I followed orders. I should be considered a hero.”
Defense Minister Liang knew there was nothing that could be done to stop the madness now. Missiles had been fired, six orbiting satellites would soon detonate, rendering almost all of the thousands of space machines useless, unable to communicate with anyone on the planet; most of the satellites soon degrading orbit, beginning to descend, eventually falling back to Earth.
China would suffer. As if the American atomic attack Liang still believed had taken place wasn’t bad enough, soon the entire DF-51 arsenal would be launched, their payloads delivered. And when it happened, it was not merely the United States’ communications that would be knocked out, but everyone’s, leaving a soundless, dark world.
Liang sat down in the nearest seat, hearing the phone’s urgent ring until suddenly the lights went out and the phone stopped making noise, a final chime echoing in the room.
Liang stood slowly as the orange emergency lights switched on half-power. In the near dark, Liang walked to Xiong, put his hand on his shoulder and said, “It would be fitting for you to be the first casualty of the war.” Liang withdrew his sidearm and shot Xiong in the temple before putting a second bullet in his own.
•
Russell couldn’t sleep. Terrified for his wife and daughter, he tossed and turned, tormented by waking nightmares about high water and monster clouds. Completely exhausted but wide-awake, he sat up and shivered.
Judy still hadn’t phoned. No email. No text message. No telegram. No letter. No calligraphic note sealed in hot wax. No smoke signals.
Not a word.
There was a deep rumble like far off thunder. The lights flickered, died, came back on.
He checked the phone. Changed channels on the tube. Looked out the window.
Picking up the phone every now and then just to hear that the line still worked or if there was a message, it merely hummed. He repeatedly called the airlines and her hotel but could never get through.
He phoned her on the landline.
All circuits are busy; please try your call later…
He tried to phone her on the cell.
Dead.
He turned the computer back on and tried to connect to the Internet.
The web was down.
Everything was dead.
Everything but TV.
Russ sat nervously in front of the set again, changing stations, listening to government spokespeople putting an upbeat spin on things, doom sayers trumpeting the end of civilization, comics telling their best jokes to no one.
All life was being controlled via remote control. Now television substituted for reality, while his own life and that of his family was on hold, disconnected.
A meteor? Two? What were the odds?
All Russ wanted was for his wife to call, to say they were safe, cruising at 35,000 feet, halfway back to Portland, Judy sipping a vodka martini, a Shirley Temple or two for Iris. Hell, give the kid a Jack Daniels.
He stared at pictures of his daughter on the mantle of the fireplace. In one taken before birth, Iris was simply a 3-D sonogram, fully developed as a life form but not breathing the air of Earth; in another, she was just two minutes old, taken with a Polaroid by Russ, the first human face she ever saw. Then Iris was three, laughing at the funny photographer in a J.C. Penney studio in Houston, wearing a gingham dress with a bow in her hair. Again at six in a shot taken by a stranger at Griffith Park in L.A. in front of the Planetarium.
He scanned the mantle further. Judy in a leather skirt at Disney World with a pair of Mickey Mouse ears on her head, Iris hugging her knees. Judy and Iris in Guadalajara. The two girls at the Kremlin in coats, even though it was June.
The capper: Judy and Russ—he, long haired and facially line-free, Judy with her Cleopatra haircut with no gray in it—standing in front of a crowd at their wedding, a group of latter-day hippies behind them.
On their honeymoon at Tahoe, they fucked like bunnies. The most recent memorable erotic time was last Halloween; his superhero costume turned her on.
How long at it been? Six months? More?
When did we last have sex?
Last month at the office party maybe? A quickie in the archives. Russ couldn’t remember an orgasm, though. He was pretty drunk that night.
Russ nervously chewed some stale macadamia nuts while he watched a CNN report from New York, basically saying they had no details about the meteors, but plenty on Taiwan and the Hawaii attack.
The state department was holding a briefing on how their allies planned to handle the Taiwan crisis. London and Berlin said they would support limited military intervention, while Paris and Moscow were holding back. A newsman interrupted the broadcast, sometime after two in the morning.
“The Pentagon reports that infrared spy satellites have detected a series of launches at Zhangzhou in Fujian Province. The destination of these missiles is unknown, though it is presumed—”
Russell couldn’t hear another word. He put the cell phone in his pocket, walked outside onto Kansas, took a deep breath and looked up the street and then down. House lights were on in all his neighbors’ homes. No one could sle
ep.
It was nice outside, refreshing. Perry stood at the edge of his yard looking at the sky. Eventually he noticed that his neighbor, Cap Dreibeck, was sitting on his porch, smoking a large cigar, staring into the distance.
“Hey, Cap.”
“Perry,” Dreibeck nodded. “Take a load off, though it ain’t much load on you. You need to eat more.”
“My wife’s out of town.” Russ sat down on the porch, next to Cap but upwind from his smoke.
“That explains it. Where’d they go? How many hours has it been?”
“I’ve lost track,” Russ shrugged. “Ninety-six, I think. Hawaii.”
“Ninety six hours. Lord, what would we do without women?”
“Starve.”
The men stared across the street, watched the flickering blue of TV screens behind the Venetian blinds and draperies of their neighbors’ homes, the illuminations dancing like big electronic fireflies.
They lived on a tree-lined street not far from the Deschutes and could hear a purl of water, more intense than usual. The air was heavy with the aroma of dew.
Russell folded his arms against a light breeze. Cap was in his tee-shirt but seemed unaffected by the chill.
“Think they’ll attack us?” Perry asked.
“Sure as shit,” Cap replied, nodding his head, drifting a curtain of smoke.
Across the street, the blue lights behind shaded windows continued their digitized choreography while the men watched in silence. Behind them, footsteps from inside the house, hurried and hard.
Dreibeck’s wife, Helen, appeared in the doorway and said as calmly as she could, “Cap, I think you’d better come in now.”
Dreibeck looked both humored and annoyed.
“As soon as I finish this cigar, Helen. Cost me fifteen dollars cash money.”
Russell turned to greet her. Before he could say a word, Helen’s frightened eyes betrayed her.
“They just—” she began, her voice a whisper above a whisper. “They just nuked Honolulu.”
