by Raylan Kane
Adorned in hard hats and work boots, a group of plant employees, expecting the arrival of the journalists, had gathered near the facility's front entrance. They eyed Lisa and Garrett with suspicion as the two collected their things from the minivan. Lisa's cell phone blared to life. She pressed the phone to her ear and Garrett checked his camera equipment.
“Hey, Leon,” Lisa said, speaking to her associate editor who was back at the office in New York. “What's up? We just arrived.”
“Have you met with the liaison there yet?” Leon asked.
“No, not yet. We honestly just arrived. I see some employees out here. I'll go talk to them.”
“I just wanted to give you a heads up, some of the workers there might be a little-”
A strong gust of wind pushed Lisa's hair into her face. Frustrated, she brushed it back with arm, but she'd missed the last of what Leon had said.
“Can you repeat that, Leon? Sorry, it's the wind.”
“I'm saying some of the people there might be reluctant to talk.”
“I expected that.” Another strong gust caused Lisa's jacket to flap up. “Let me see what I can do, I should probably go though.”
“Alright, stay safe.”
“Yep.”
Lisa pocketed her phone and threw an annoyed look at Garrett. She grabbed an elastic from her backpack and tied her hair up having lost her patience with the wind.
“What was that about?” Garrett asked.
“Leon's worried for our safety.”
“Interesting.”
The group of workers approached Lisa and Garrett. One of the men, wearing a collared dress shirt, black jeans and glasses looked at Lisa. “You here from the Hudson?”
“We are.”
“I just want to let you know, we don't know anything about what was posted, alright? But we've been told to let you guys in.”
“That's fine,” Lisa replied. “Listen, we're just here to do our job.”
“Truth is,” the man said, “we don't like you folks much up here. Media types.”
Lisa looked at Garrett who merely shrugged his shoulders.
“Follow us,” the man said.
The small group of workers fell in behind the man with the glasses and Lisa and Garrett made sure to walk toward the building a few steps behind.
“Well,” Garrett said, deadpan, “this oughta be fun.”
-ZERO HOUR+
NESTOR SINGH
ABOARD TALCAHUANO RESEARCH VESSEL
DRAKE PASSAGE, 300 km SOUTH OF CAPE HORN
1:05 PM LOCAL TIME
Nestor stood along the steel railing on the deck of the ship holding binoculars in front of his face. Michelle walked over. “Anything?” She said.
“Nothing.”
“I guess we'll have to move to another area after all. I know you hate admitting Sergio was right.”
Nestor chuckled at the suggestion. “He has to be right first,” he said. “How was lunch?”
“Actually pretty good. You would've liked it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, it-”
A concussive explosion cut Michelle off mid-sentence. Loud as a sonic boom, the blast thundered across the sky though few clouds appeared above them. Nestor whipped his head right toward the source of the sound, due south. Michelle followed suit.
“Right there!” Michelle couldn't help but shout. Panic in her voice.
“I see it,” Nestor replied.
The two researchers looked at one another with wide eyes, then back at what appeared to be an off-white plume on the blue horizon. It's small size and wavy outline told them it was a long way off.
Nestor flashed from the deck back inside to look at his readouts. The ship's captain, Sergio Ventura appeared from the galley below. “What the hell was that?” Sergio said.
Nestor looked at his computer screen. “An eruption of some kind. Looks like 3300 kilometers from here.”
“An eruption?” Sergio said, fear in his voice. “Where?”
Nestor could hardly believe it himself as he stared at the monitor. “The South Pole.”
“You're kidding,” Michelle said, incredulous.
“I'm not.”
With a snap and a flicker the ship went dark. Nestor's equipment turned black. The engines went deadly quiet. A commotion sounded from below deck. “Hey, hey,” Sergio bellowed, “what the hell is this?”
Nestor ran back out to the deck, looking south once again. Michelle and Sergio followed him, as others among the crew began appearing from the levels below.
One of the workers ran up to them. “Captain, we have no power and-”
“Quiet,” barked Sergio. “Let Mr. Singh think.”
They watched as the tiny plume seemed to connect sea and sky. Immediately, an overpowering stench permeated the air.
“Oh my God,” Michelle said, “that's awful.”
“Sulphur,” Nestor said, “I think.”
Sergio and his crew plugged their noses. A second later a sharp stinging sensation washed over everyone's skin, a burn that irritated their nostrils and ached in their throats and behind their eyes. Michelle sneezed and some of the crew members coughed, rubbing their eyes.
“Think this is related?” Michelle asked her boss.
Nestor squinted, the pain wasn't serious, but it was enough to cause his eyes to water. “I'm thinking it has to be.”
“What should we do?” Sergio said.
“Where are the generators?” Nestor said. “That's what I'd like to know.”
“They should've kicked in by now,” the Captain said. “Without them we're dead out here.”
HENRY IX OF ENGLAND
WATTA VILLAS RESORT
SRI LANKA
10:35 PM LOCAL TIME
Henry stared into the swimming pool long after the sun went down. The pool water glowed from the lights embedded in its walls. He thought about speaking with his mother back in England. He reached for his phone which had fallen between sofa cushions. The lights went out. Henry pushed the power button on his phone. It would not respond. He frowned, feeling the night breeze float in from the sea. A strong odor caused him to choke and cough. Henry swallowed and a sharp sting gripped his tongue and his nose. His eyes began to water. The stench was too much to bear. He could hear the echoes of others sneezing and sputtering in other rooms. Terence called out to Henry in the dark, closing the new King's door behind him.
“Highness?”
“Yes, I'm right here.”
Terence tried to stifle his cough. “Are you okay?”
“I'm fine. Do we know what this is?”
“No. I have shouted to the guards, no one's answering. I cannot call them. Phones are down.”
“Have they left their posts?”
“Not that I was aware. One had been trying to escort Ms. Clark back to her resort.”
“Bloody hell. She's still here?”
“Had been in the bar, Highness. Upset you see.” Terence couldn't hold back his cough any longer. He held a fist to his lips, doing his best to get it under control.
“You're worse off than I am,” Henry said. He stood from the sofa. The moon provided just enough light to see the outline of the pool in front of him. He avoided the edge and tried to see if any lights were on in other units.
“Careful, sir,” Terence said, swallowing the ache in the back of his throat.
“I'm fine.”
A knock sounded at the door. “Don't move,” Terence instructed. “Please.”
“You worry too much, Terence.” Henry said, then sneezing.
“Yes?” Terence answered through the heavy door.
“It's Marcus,” came the voice of one of Henry's bodyguards.
Terence opened the door and could barely make out the outline of the heavily muscled man. A much smaller shadow clung to him. “Who is that?” Terence said.
“Apologies, sir,” Marcus said, groaning as he rubbed his eyes, “she insisted on coming back to see him again.”
He could hear the girl sniffling into the guard's arm. “Take her back downstairs at once.”
“Terence,” Henry spoke up from inside the room. “It's fine, let her in.”
Terence stepped out of the way and Marcus walked into the room with the girl careful not to bump into anything. Terence closed the door and locked it.
LAUREN SIMMS & JEFF GREENING
MAPLEVIEW LAKE CONSERVATION AREA
VINELAND, ONTARIO
1:05 PM LOCAL TIME
Jeff didn't like Lauren's hair, but that wasn't something to tell your bride the very moment you're about to marry her. He didn't like the way they tucked her blonde braid to one side. Jeff always loved it when Lauren wore her hair down.
The weather could not have been better for an outdoor wedding. Sunny skies over a green field with vineyards beyond. One hundred guests sat on white wooden fold out chairs. The only small children were the ring bearer, Lyle, and the flower girl, Brook. No babies, no small children. Those were Lauren's orders.
The DJ, Danton, had played a soft guitar instrumental from his iPod for Lauren's walk down the aisle holding the arm of her father, Bill. The song Lauren had picked out.
Three of Lauren's five bridesmaids had kicked off their shoes to stand barefoot in the grass. The wedding planner, Selena Marchant was not impressed. Remy Quinn and his catering staff looked on from a hundred feet away in front of the refurbished barn where the reception would be held. Phil Greening, one of Jeff's brothers and an usher, had handed out paper fans to guests. A slight breeze kept the humidity down a bit, but not much.
Jeff tried not to concentrate on Lauren's hair that he felt was overdone. Jeff had his Best Man Dan Resey beside him as Lauren had her Maid of Honor Lindsay Wholman beside her. Their Officiant, Tom Carkner, verse held in front of him, was ready to begin. He opened his mouth to speak and spewed a wad of phlegm onto Jeff's lapel. There was no time to gasp at the gaffe, everyone was overcome with a terrible stench. Two of Jeff's groomsmen were doubled over coughing. Lauren's Design Assistant on her TV show, and one of her bridesmaids, Holly Poole, nearly fell backward with the stinging in her eyes, her blurred vision came out of nowhere.
Back at the barn, Remy held his nose and looked all around the grounds hoping to see the source of the awful smell. His servers were holding their throats, coughing and sneezing. He could barely speak, but he managed to bark at them to take their sputtering away from the trays of food.
The guests fanned themselves and those around them feverishly. Anything to push away the terrible odor. Lauren's grandmother, May, truly wondered if she was going to choke to death. No one knew what to do. Lauren looked away from Jeff, the back of her neck which had a slight coat of perspiration stung as though it'd been sunburned. She waved her arm, frantic, a signal for Selena to come quick. Selena, dealing with her own breathing issues, saw Lauren wave to her and pushed her way past the troubled guests until she reached the front.
“What is happening?” Lauren said to the planner.
“I don't know.”
“Well find out!”
Terry, Jeff's teenage cousin who'd been forced to be an usher for the event, handled the smell and the attack on his senses better than most. He turned to his fifteen year old girlfriend beside him, Charla, the one who'd been getting dirty looks from the girl in front of her for having her feet up on the back of her chair. He grabbed her cell phone while she tried to calm her sneezing fit. Terry pressed the button on the side of the phone, but the screen remained black just like his.
“Jeffrey!” The groom turned to see his mother, Candice, fanning his dad, Randall who appeared to be passed out. Jeff rushed over.
“Is he alright?”
“I don't know,” Candice said, “he just fainted all of a sudden.”
Breathing seemed to get easier for most in an instant. The choking and stinging sensations ceased, though the stench remained.
Jeff wiped away the water at the corners of his eyes. “Dad,” he said, touching his father's cheek. Randall's eyes opened suddenly. It took him a moment to realize where he was. Jeff smiled slightly. “Are you alright?”
“What happened?” Randall said.
“You passed out.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“Are you married now? Did I miss it? Jesus, that smell. What is that, sulphur?”
“Don't worry, Dad. You didn't miss it. Just stay here, okay. We're gonna get you looked at.”
“No, don't do that, I don't want to ruin your day.”
“Dad, relax. Just want to make sure you're alright. Can somebody call a doctor?”
“An ambulance?”
“Yes.”
Jeff pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Lauren walked over to him. “Is he okay?”
“I don't know,” Jeff said, “he passed out. I hope he's fine.”
“What is happening, Jeff?”
“I wish I knew.”
Jeff looked at his phone, the screen wouldn't engage. “Does your phone work?”
Lauren turned to her Maid of Honor. “Lindsay, you have my phone, right?”
“Yep,” Lindsay walked over. “Mine's not working. Here.”
Lindsay passed Lauren her phone. It would not turn on.
Everyone in the crowd was doing a dance of sorts, a variation of tapping on their phones and watches, willing them to work.
“This is stupid,” Lauren said, she pinched her nose trying to block the smell. “I literally don't understand what is happening right now.”
“Excuse me!” Dan, the best man, waved his arms overhead to get everyone's attention. “Does anyone here have cell reception? Or a phone that works? Jeff's dad needs to see a doctor!”
Everyone shook their head. A lot of answers in the negative were shouted.
“Unbelievable,” Dan said, “nobody's phone works.”
“I'm fine, seriously,” Randall said. “I don't need a doctor. I think the heat, that smell, the whole thing combined. My brain just needed a break, I guess.”
A sickly drone echoed from above. Something heavy careening from above. Falling. A plunging aircraft. A hundred and fifty heads turned skyward, horrified to see a passenger jet, a big one, coasting over the park grounds. Seeing the big craft drift, they could tell it was not going to fall on them, but instead somewhere towards the horizon. The plane passed over the field, leaving the sky in a hurry. It's shadow swept out into the vineyard. Transfixed, the gathered watched as the airliner sunk lower until it met the horizon with a concussive crash. Terror-stricken cries rang out when an orange fireball burst in the distance.
“Oh my God!” Screamed one of the guests. Little Lyle and Brook held hands as they cried.
Something brushed Jeff's shoulder, he turned and saw two of his groomsmen, Chris and Jeremy followed by Jeremy's girlfriend, Lara, all sprinting out into the field in the direction of crash. “Where are you going?” Jeff shouted to them.
“There might be survivors!” Chris hollered over his shoulder, sprinting into the vineyard.
THE TRAVERS FAMILY
THE TRAVERS COMPOUND
26 MILES SOUTH OF MOUNTED PLACE, MONTANA
11:05 AM LOCAL TIME
Glen met the Bronco at the end of the Travers 2-mile long dirt driveway. Grease across his forehead, wrench in hand. The thin lane opened to a wide patch of gravel in front of their shipping container compound. Containers stacked three-high in triangle formation, garden and rainwater capture in the middle. A brown barn sat 50 feet adjacent, a steel watchtower 30-feet high next to that, weather vane on top. Trees had been cut back three miles. Stone walls topped with razor wire ringed the 4200-acre property. Glen spent $3.5 million digging a moat. They found the land for sale on the internet when they lived in Wyoming after they won the lottery.
Glen's son, Morris, walked from the compound, clipboard at his side. “Didn't think she'd be home alr
eady,” Morris said.
“Inventory done?” Glen said.
Morris put his head down, didn't answer.
“That's what I thought,” Glen said. “Where's your sister?”
“Reading, I think.”
Georgia rolled the Bronco over toward the front of the barn, parked it in between a 1950s pickup and a backhoe. Glen looked at his son.
“Hen's need tending to,” he said, “go get her.”
Morris trudged away. Georgia stepped out of the truck. “Where's Jinny?” Glen asked.
“She's ready,” Georgia said, “udder's fine. Didn't think I should bring in her in this. Maybe with your pickup.”
“That's fine,” Glen said. “You put the bridge up?”
“Of course.”
“Let's see these packets.”
Georgia walked around to the passenger side with Glen in tow. He opened the box to have a look, shook his head. He sighed. “We'll use 'em anyhow.”
“Figured-” Georgia was caught mid-sentence, snapped her head to the side in reaction to a disgusting odor.
Glen turned up his nose and looked to the sky. He blew out a long breath, squinted and grit his teeth as he struggled to take in a new breath. Georgia coughed with her hands on her knees. Glen's mind raced. Gas. Couldn't figure where it was coming from. He saw Morris and his daughter, Fran, running toward them. Glen held up his hand, fought against the choking sensation to yell at his son. “Grab the walkie!”
Morris turned back for their home. Fran reached her mother, fear in her eyes. Georgia put an arm around her. “My nose is burning,” Fran said.
“We've got to get inside to the masks.”
“Is this it?” Georgia said.
Morris ran back into view holding two-way radios in both hands, snot running from his nose. “They're both dead!” He hollered.
Glen's expression changed. His eyes narrowed, his lips formed a thin straight line. “Yes,” Glen said, hacking a wad of spit to the dirt. “This is it.”