Doomsday Apocalypse

by Bobby Akart

  “What the hell?” said the man from the dark corner of the elevator.

  “John, what’s going on?” asked his oversexed friend.

  “I don’t know. Do I look like an elevator expert?” he responded rudely. He turned his attention to Hayden. “Hey, lady, push some buttons or something. Or better yet, use the phone to call somebody downstairs. It’s hot as hell in here.”

  Quit blowing hot air, and it might get better.

  Hayden smirked and fumbled through her coat for her cell phone. She had the McPherson Building’s security desk as one of her contacts. She scrolled through her phone and then dialed the number. The phone rang repeatedly.

  “No answer,” Hayden mumbled.

  “Did you call the police?” asked the young woman.

  “No, building security. I’m sure they’re working on it.”

  The man turned back to his conquest and resumed pawing her. “Come on, why waste time? Besides, maybe with a little encouragement, our new friend will join us.”

  The girl giggled and the two resumed kissing. Hayden tried the desk security again but didn’t get a response. Using her phone’s display as a light source, Hayden looked around the small elevator, wishing for an escape from the two inconsiderate gropers.

  She was comfortable knowing that safety measures were in place to prevent the cab from crashing to the bottom of the elevator shaft. What concerned her the most was the lack of oxygen and the fact there wasn’t an emergency generator system in place to provide some type of lighting and airflow.

  Hayden had experienced claustrophobia in the past. She thought she’d left the form of panic disorder behind as a child, but it began to rear its ugly head again. She began experiencing shortness of breath, and her pulse quickened as anxiety took over.

  Hayden tried to block out of her mind the cause of her phobia, a frightening day as a child when she went into a cave on the family farm and got stuck. Her playmates couldn’t help her and left to find an adult. None of them thought to stay with Hayden during the ordeal. For thirty minutes, she remained alone in the semidarkness, where she was visited by bugs and mice.

  As an eight-year-old’s mind is prone to do, fears of abandonment and even death at the hand of the critters that crawled around dark spaces overcame her. As a result, she battled her fear of confined spaces for years until, as an adult, she was able to function despite the potential of a reoccurrence.

  Her cell phone was still illuminated, which helped her define the space around her, but it also resulted in her catching an unfortunate glimpse of the progress the man was making with his conquest. Hayden was not a prude, but she was not a selfish exhibitionist either.

  She tried the security desk again and began to grow frustrated that nobody was answering. Then her mind began to race. Was the power out in the city? Had the security team been attacked as part of some elaborate robbery or takeover of the building?

  She considered the masses of people outside the White House, which was only four blocks away. Had they broken through the front entrance security and mobbed the building? Maybe they’d vandalized it as well?

  Hayden’s mind went to all of these outlandish scenarios because she’d become consumed with the news of discord sewn throughout the country. A simple thing like a power outage suddenly became something much larger.

  Then the lights flickered to life and the air fan came back on.

  The couple scampered to rearrange their clothing amidst nervous giggles. Hayden tried to ignore them and instead pressed the L button to take them to the lobby. Relief washed over her as the elevator started its descent once again.

  When it opened, she burst through the doors first and stormed across the marble floor of the lobby as fast as her Bruno Magli heels could carry her. She saw the security personnel emerge from the building’s maintenance office, but she didn’t care to wait for an explanation.

  She just wanted to get home.

  Chapter 22

  Mercedes-Benz Stadium

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Will began his patrols and building security checks after touching base with the main security office located on the field level. He’d never seen the stadium this loud and chaotic. During football games, a big play might bring the fans to their feet, screaming and cheering for their team. In a concert setting, the dancing, singing, and loud music could be overwhelming.

  Tonight, Will was assigned to the 200 Concourse, the outermost reaches of the galaxy, as the security team referred to it. In addition to being the seats closest to the retractable opening roof, the restricted areas of the uppermost concourse included utility and maintenance rooms, which housed the operations nerve center of the facility.

  He walked along the public access part of the 200 Concourse, scanning the concertgoers for suspicious activities and constantly checking for unexpected bags or packages lying around unattended. He watched for unusual spills and tried to detect any out-of-the-ordinary odors, which would indicate a bioterror attack, a task that became increasingly difficult as the night went on due to the pungent smell of marijuana, which permeated the upper levels of the stadium.

  Early on during his rounds, he slipped down to the lower levels and checked on the kids. He was relieved to see they were sitting in their assigned seats, watching the concert. He didn’t hover, as he wanted to avoid being busted double-checking on them. He wanted to establish a level of trust with Ethan and hoped his son would notice the gesture.

  Satisfied the kids were safe, Will returned to the top level and made his way into the back hallways of the 200 Concourse to inspect the facility maintenance rooms.

  *****

  “Hey, Sky, this place is cray-cray!” Ethan shouted over the music.

  “What?” came her response.

  Ethan laughed and gave his sister a playful shove. “You know, crazy. Amped. Awesome.”

  “Oh, yeah. Pretty noisy too.” She still appeared confused at the street language Ethan had picked up in high school, which hadn’t quite reached the fifth grade.

  Ethan pointed down to the concertgoers who were standing on the floor, dancing and waving their arms in unison. “Look down there. That’s where the real party is!”

  Skylar stood slightly to see over the adults’ heads in front of her. She shrugged and sat back in her seat, apparently uninterested. She was enduring the concert because her father brought her there, and because this was the happiest she’d seen Ethan in a long time.

  Ethan was rocking back and forth in his seat when he leaned over to his sister so he could speak into her ear. “Hey, you know our passes let us go anywhere we want, right?”

  Skylar nodded.

  “I’ve got an idea. Come with me.”

  “Where?” asked Skylar.

  “You’ll see. Come on.” Ethan stood and grabbed his sister by the hand. She set down her Coke and scrambled to keep up as he led her down the pedestrian ramps leading to the lower level. They made their way through the throngs of people crowded around the field-level entrances, and they joined the massive party going on in front of the stage.

  “Ethan, I don’t like this. Let’s go back to our seats.” Skylar was overwhelmed and uncomfortable by the size and closeness of the crowd. A drunk girl staggered into her and spilled some of her beer on Skylar’s shoe, which added to her feelings of concern.

  “It’ll be fun, trust me. Let’s get closer to the stage.” Ethan grabbed his sister by the hand and wove his way through the mostly inebriated crowd, who were oblivious to the two making their way closer.

  They were now close enough to see Beyoncé, clad in a white beaded leotard, strolling the stage in her customary sensual manner. While Jay-Z rapped, Beyoncé added the lyrics, both adoringly looking into each other’s eyes.

  Ethan had reached the front corner of the stage, and they got settled in for the up-close-and-personal performance of “’03 Bonnie & Clyde,” the couple’s first collaborative duet from years ago. As the heart-pounding music slowed for the more sensual t
une, Ethan noticed a group of pretty girls off to his left. They made eye contact with him and he immediately was smitten.

  Two of the girls made their way over to where he and Skylar were standing near the temporary barriers.

  “Hey, wanna burn one with us?” asked one of the girls, referring to smoking a marijuana cigarette.

  “Yeah, but, um, I’m with my sister,” replied Ethan, embarrassed that he was tasked with what amounted to babysitting in his mind.

  “Man, we’ve got enough for everybody,” said the other girl as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small Ziploc bag full of pre-rolled joints.

  Ethan vigorously shook his head and held up his hands. “Nah, she doesn’t smoke and can’t know that I do. I’ll meet you back over there with your friends in a minute.”

  They giggled and swatted playfully at his long hair. The two left, glancing back over their shoulders to make sure Ethan was watching. He turned to Skylar.

  “Hey, Sky, there are a couple of girls over there I wanna say hi to. You wait right here.”

  She immediately protested. “Ethan, no. You just said hello to them. Don’t leave me alone.”

  “Come on, Skylar. Don’t mess this up for me. You’ll be fine. Just stay right here on this rail and I’ll be back in a minute. You’ll be fine.”

  Skylar thought for a moment and glanced to where the girls were standing. It was about thirty feet around the curved, temporary barriers. “Okay, but please hurry. When you’re done, I wanna go back to our seats. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, Sky. That’s what we’ll do.” Ethan spun around and forced his way through the crowd as the tempo picked up onstage and the concertgoers increased their energy.

  Skylar dutifully remained behind, clutching the steel barrier with both hands, an eleven-year-old girl in a light blue track suit amidst thousands of drunk and high people dancing to the hip-hop music of Mr. and Mrs. Shawn Carter, also known as Jay-Z and Beyoncé.

  Chapter 23

  Delta Flight 322

  The two men continued making obnoxious jokes about the relative safety of flying compared to jogging, riding a bike, driving in a car, and swimming the English Channel. None of it was coherent and only served to frighten the women next to Cort even more.

  One of the elderly women reached over and touched Cort’s arm. “Sir, what does he mean by that?”

  Cort, who was disgusted by the two men for many reasons, shook his head. “Ma’am, that’s just an old tired joke muttered by a man who’d be well served to keep his mouth shut. Delta is a good airline with an excellent safety record.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, of course. Listen, Delta operates about fifteen thousand flights a day.” Cort paused to do the math in order to make his point and soothe her flight jitters. “Think about it. That’s five and a half million flights a year. Granted, all airplanes are susceptible to accidents, but to my knowledge, Delta’s only had about a dozen in the last forty or fifty years. That’s a pretty good track record.”

  She pursed her lips and then allowed a slight smile. She appeared relieved. “Okay, thank you, young man. I’m sorry for bothering you. It’s just, well, my sister and I are returning home from burying a dear friend in Atlanta. She’s younger than the two of us, and it just seems odd that someone could pass before we did.”

  “Ma’am, I think it’s natural to think about our own mortality after burying a friend or loved one. I just left the bedside of my father-in-law and he’s not well. Sadly, I have to figure out how to tell my wife and his granddaughter the bad news. While most people are enjoying New Year’s festivities, I have to tell my wife her father is very ill and possibly near death.”

  Cort closed his eyes and pictured his father-in-law, who despite the sudden onset of his debilitating illness, remained one of Washington, DC’s top powerbrokers. At least, his words were still powerful.

  The woman patted Cort on the arm again, somehow relieving her burdens and also comforting his own nerves, a troubled passenger who happened to sit by her side. They exchanged knowing smiles and turned their attention toward the aisle.

  The attractive flight attendant approached the passengers and the exit row. She went through her FAA-mandated questioning of those passengers regarding their abilities to comply with exit-row requirements and their familiarity with the operation of the exit doors. After she asked each passenger whether they understood and were able to perform their duties, one of the men began flirting with her.

  “You know, if I have to open this door, you’ll be the first one I rescue.”

  “That’s very nice of you, sir,” she said as her face blushed.

  She began walking to the back of the aircraft, prompting the men to gaze at her backside.

  Cort, however, reached out for her arm and stopped her progress. “Miss, may I mention something to you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He motioned for her to lean down as he lowered his voice. “Before I boarded, I saw those men in the bar drinking and talking loudly. I can’t say whether they’re drunk, but I am saying they might not be the best passengers suited to handle the exit-row duties.”

  Sometimes Cort came across as an attorney, which, of course, he was. He’d always been one to choose his words carefully, a trait he shared with his father-in-law.

  “Sir, thank you, but it is New Year’s Eve. Three-quarters of the passengers on this flight are most likely tipsy.”

  Cort shrugged and the flight attendant continued toward the rear of the aircraft, running her hands along the overhead bins to make sure they were adequately secured. She was probably right. The passengers appeared to be in high spirits. Perhaps it was the excitement of getting home, as he doubted anyone was traveling to Mobile to celebrate. Naturally, alcohol had been consumed, as was tradition on the last night of a year.

  Cort finally settled in for the trip. He’d logged many miles on airplanes, but this was his first New Year’s flight, and his last.

  Chapter 24

  Metrorail System

  Washington, DC

  Hayden walked through a large crowd of people in the vicinity of Lafayette Park to enter the McPherson Square Station two blocks away. As she walked past them, she moved largely unnoticed despite her appearance. Most of the people were dressed in sweatpants or jeans, coupled with heavy jackets. They were equipped to endure the elements in order to stand up for their cause.

  She was standing on the platform, waiting for the blue line train to arrive. She studied the people who surrounded her. In stark contrast to the protestors aboveground, the awaiting passengers looked more like her. Her building was located near K Street, known worldwide for its numerous think tanks, lobbying firms, and political advocacy groups.

  Dressed in high-end trench coats and carrying expensive briefcases like she was, these people made a living from the influence they held with lawmakers and bureaucrats. By contrast, the protestors surrounding the White House felt it was their duty to influence the government through their voices.

  Certainly, quite a few of the protestors were astroturf, an ostensibly grassroots movement that was actually funded by the types of political interests and advocacy groups that inhabited K Street. That didn’t diminish their beliefs, but it did explain their ability to organize so quickly while lending the appearance they came together as a spontaneous uprising.

  She rode the blue line to the transportation hub of the DC Metrorail system—L’Enfant Plaza Station. Located more than one hundred feet belowground just a block south of the Smithsonian Museum, L’Enfant Plaza was packed with New Year’s revelers, protestors, and late-working professionals like Hayden.

  Inside the station, the noise level was high, and the cold wind that blew through the tunnels did nothing to tamp down their spirits. The mix of people in the station was a microcosm of what was happening around DC on this holiday weekend. Some conversations were consumed with politics, discussing the fate of the president. Others were slightly inebriated as they talked
about their plans for the evening. Some, like Hayden, stood quietly waiting for the green line train’s arrival to carry them to their homes in Maryland or, in Hayden’s case, Congress Heights on the DC-Maryland border.

  Hayden was keenly aware, as always, to watch for signs of troublemakers. After she’d moved to DC from North Carolina, she’d learned to practice situational awareness. During her first month of working in the District, she learned that the city that held the leader of the free world was just as susceptible to crime as Chicago, Detroit, or Los Angeles. She’d witnessed purse snatchings, muggings, and even a knife attack in those early days. She vowed not to become a victim.

  The first thing she did was research how to be aware of her surroundings, but without becoming paranoid. She studied numerous websites on the subject and then applied it to her experiences riding the subway.

  She quickly learned that the vast majority of people were simply tuned out to the world around them. Most were engrossed in their smartphones, catching up on the local news or reviewing their social media accounts. Others were in a daydream state, focusing on a song or radio program rather than their surroundings. She often wondered if any of them remembered how they got from point A to point B.

  Some people were more responsible, practicing what she considered to be a relaxed state of awareness. She equated it to defensive driving, constantly scanning her mirrors or looking ahead for possible hazards. In the city, it could be as simple as looking both ways before entering a crosswalk as opposed to following the herd with their nose in their phone’s display.

  After her early experiences in the city, Hayden learned to adopt a more focused level of awareness, one which she equated to driving on an icy road back in Tennessee. Sometimes, if she felt her mind wandering while she was taking the subway to and from work, she’d remind herself by thinking—both hands on the wheel, an admonishment her father used often when teaching her to drive.