by May, L M
Gemma was lost for words. This wasn’t going at all how she expected. How could anyone turn their back on such a sweet child?
She felt her throat tighten as she scooped up the photograph of CJ. She thought at the very least he would be curious about his son.
She should have known that he hadn’t changed. He’d never had to take responsibility for anything in his life, and he obviously wasn’t going to start now.
“In that case, Mr. Daley, if you’ll just sign this, then I will be able to make other arrangements.”
“Other arrangements?”
“For CJ.”
The phone began to ring, and Gemma stared at it, swiping at the bitter, angry tears that sprung to her eyes. Tears for Caroline who would never get to see all the things Christopher was so easily passing up as his son grew.
“I heard Caroline was sick...” Christopher trailed off, ignoring the insistent ringing of the telephone.
Then instantaneously, the ringing stopped and the lights went out, followed only moments later by the squealing of tires and a terrific crash on the street below.
2
“Must be a black-out,” Christopher said as Gemma reached his side at the window, the fresh smell of her hair filling his senses as they took in the scene two stories below them.
“I think it’s a lot more than a black-out,” Gemma breathed.
At first Christopher was having trouble understanding what he was seeing. It was as though the world was winding down – the traffic had come to an almost complete standstill, the street lined with cars, taxis, trucks and buses. Heavier vehicles were still rolling slowly forward, as though they had all stalled at the exact same time, some bumping into the car in front of them before they too came to a stop.
A dark haired woman in a four wheel drive tugged desperately at a steering wheel that wouldn’t fully comply. The young girl in the passenger seat's mouth opened in horror. As the mother continued to wrestle with the wheel, Christopher realized she'd lost her power steering. She was trying to turn the car to protect her daughter from the impact.
The four wheel drive hit the back corner of a station wagon with a dull thud and a shattering of glass.
The rusty old station wagon was the cause of the first crash they’d heard, having slammed into the car in front of it at some force, crumpling its rear end. The driver, who'd been shouting out his window at the car in front of him shoved his door open, already hurling abuse as he stalked toward the four wheel drive.
The man was rough as hell, with a wild, shaggy brown beard, wearing a striped flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off revealing powerful, heavily muscled arms covered in tattoos.
Christopher stiffened, his first instinct to go and help the woman and her terrified daughter.
On the far side of the road a teenager with a shock of red hair rode slowly on his bike, mouth open as he tried to take in what he was seeing, and then he too came to a stop, staring around with confusion.
The traffic lights at the end of the street were black. The windows of the buildings opposite them dark.
The absence of the sounds of traffic rushing by, of horns honking and music blaring, made it seem as though the entire world had come to a grinding halt. People ventured onto the street from their cars, some closing the door after them, others just leaving them hanging open.
“What are they staring at?” Gemma’s voice was soft.
Below them, people were starting to look up at the sky, somewhere above his office building, and Christopher found himself pressing his nose against the glass, trying to see what they saw as a low, almost mournful droning sound filled the air.
A dark shadow moved over the building, and then he saw the plane, its huge belly maybe a hundred feet above them, and it was quickly losing altitude.
“Oh my God.” Gemma’s nails dug into his arm. “It’s nine eleven all over again.”
There was no doubt in Christopher’s mind that the plane was going down. Not only did it sound wrong, it was far too low in the sky for this part of the city.
As the plane passed over them it cast a dark shadow on the street below, and then the building on the other side of the street blocked it from view. Christopher found his eyes traveling lower, to the building in front of him, and the place where he imagined the troubled plane to be. Its image was so strongly imprinted on him that he could see its fateful fall in his mind.
He could feel Gemma shaking beside him, and realized he was shaking a little himself. He pulled her roughly into his side, still tracking the path of the plane, waiting for the inevitable impact.
He tried not to think about all those people, or what must be going through their minds. Tried not to think about the fact there was nowhere to land on that side of the city. Just miles and miles of buildings.
A loud, rumbling boom echoed through the air, not so different from the sound of thunder, and he could have sworn he felt the building vibrate beneath his feet.
Christopher's breath came out in a rush. Gemma let out a small, shocked whimper, burying her head in his side.
Gemma suddenly pulled away, her face pale as she moved quickly to the phone on the desk, her brow furrowing as she stabbed at the switch hook.
She looked up at him, her lovely face distorting with a fear he didn't understand. “It's dead,” she said.
“I'm sure emergency services are already on the way...” Christopher trailed off, thinking of all the cars that had stalled in the street. What the hell had just happened?
Gemma's face was pale as she fumbled in her bag, and pulled out her phone. She stared at it blankly for a moment, a hand going to her mouth, then she looked at him, her eyes wide. “Try your phone.”
“My phone?” Christopher stepped toward her – she was obviously in shock.
“Yes. Your phone. See if it's working.”
“Why wouldn't my phone be working?”
“Just check your damned phone,” Gemma growled.
Christopher pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced down at it. “Shit, it's dead,” he said, his voice too loud in the eerie silence.
Gemma jumped slightly, silent tears streaming down her face.
Before today, Christopher had only ever seen Gemma cry once in all the time he'd known her, and it hit him with a powerful blow to the gut. Gemma was one of the strongest people he had ever met. A true survivor. She’d had to be. And now he'd seen tears in her eyes twice in the last few minutes, and as a deep gnawing fear spread in the pit of his belly, he couldn't help but feel like her tears were a dark, foreboding omen of what was yet to come. Just like they had been last time.
A small, watery smile broke across Gemma's face, so fleeting he barely saw it.
“What?” He raised a brow at her.
“Nothing – it’s just – I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use a word like that before.”
“I can think of a lot worse,” he said, and as though the years that stood between them had melted away with her tears, Christopher cupped Gemma's face in his hands, swiping their warmth away with his thumbs.
Gemma's eyes moved to the window, her voice barely a whisper. “All those people ... just gone.”
“Mr. Daley?” Anne rapped softly on the door.
Christopher crossed the room in a few long strides, realizing he hadn’t given the older woman a moment’s thought as he pulled the door open. No doubt she was feeling pretty shaken.
Anne's normally calm blue eyes were tight with fear, and her face was tense. The unflappable Anne Turley was more than shaken – she was terrified – and that rattled him.
Anne was a small, thin woman with silvery-gray hair, and one would be forgiven for thinking the slightest wind would be enough to knock her over, but they would be badly mistaken.
Christopher had seen Anne single-handedly reduce hardened criminals into child-like submissiveness, and she had no qualms about taking on the senior partners when she felt it necessary. On more than one occasion she had put enough fear into Ch
ristopher's heart that he ended everything he said to her with ma'am for weeks to come.
“Did you see?” Anne's eyes darted toward the window, and Christopher nodded.
“I think we’re in a whole world of trouble, Mr. Daley.” Anne cast a quick, curious glance at Gemma.
“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Christopher agreed. “There’s no telling how long it might be before they get the power back on. You may as well head home, Anne.”
Anne tutted, her brows creasing slightly. “I very much doubt my car will be working, Mr. Daley, if those in the street are anything to–”
“Oh my God, somebody do something,” a woman screamed.
Anne turned sharply, and charged down the corridor, followed closely by Christopher and Gemma. The corridor was dim, the main source of light coming from the window behind the alcove where the sitting area was, and the few patches of thin light that managed to sneak past the office doors.
Gordon Greenvale, one of the junior partners – a tall thin man with dark hair and a deceivingly charming air about him, poked his head out of his office as they passed.
“He’s dead,” the woman shrieked as they reached the lavish room that was used for their wealthier clients.
An elderly man with a small thin face sat motionless on one of the rich, burgundy leather couches, his body listing slightly to the side. The man’s face was gray and ashy, and his pale eyes were staring sightlessly ahead.
Donavon was leaning over the man, feeling for a pulse in his neck as the woman continued to scream, demanding he do something. Donavon looked up as they entered the room, and shook his head sadly at Christopher.
“Did he have a pacemaker?” Gemma raised her voice to be heard over the screaming woman.
“A pacemaker? What does that have to do with anything?” Christopher asked.
“You have no idea what just happened, do you?” Gemma said.
“And I suppose you do?” Christopher grimaced as the woman continued to scream.
“What – have you been living in a cave, Mr. Daley?” Anne's eyes narrowed. “NASA has been warning us this could happen for years. Take a look around you. Nothing's working.”
* * *
Gemma stared stupidly at the shrieking woman, her mind still reeling as the full implications of what she believed had just happened sank in. Any other time she may have had some sympathy for the woman, but it couldn't have been any more than fifteen minutes since the plane went down. If she was right, life as they knew it had changed forever.
The woman looked to be in her early twenties, and had long, platinum blonde hair. She was clutching at her face with bright red, perfectly manicured nails that matched her lipstick. Her impressive assets bulged out of a sheer white shirt, and the red scrap of material that passed for a skirt was as shiny as her impossibly high heels.
Raising an eyebrow at Christopher, Gemma moved quickly to the woman, and put a gentle hand on her shoulder to get her attention.
The woman turned toward Gemma, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps between her screams, her blue eyes startled and uncomprehending.
On the other side of the room, Christopher and a tall, distinguished looking man with salt and pepper hair moved to the window, their voices low.
Gemma had no idea what to say to the woman, and doubted she'd have heard anything she said anyway.
Thankfully the woman stopped screaming, her breath still hitching in her chest as her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears.
“He’s dead,” the woman said.
“Is he your father?” Gemma asked, hoping to engage her in conversation before she started screaming again.
“Father?” The woman almost blew Gemma's ear drum out. “That’s my husband.” She pulled away from Gemma, her eyes tight little blue balls of venom.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” Gemma apologized.
The woman ignored her, stalking toward Christopher and the man he was talking to. “When are you going to do something about the phone?” she snapped.
Gemma rolled her eyes, glad when Anne linked her arm through the woman’s, guiding her toward the door. “Come on, Sasha dear, let’s go get you a nice cold drink of water.”
“I’ll be needing something a lot stronger than water,” Sasha snapped.
You’re not the only one, Gemma sighed, glancing briefly at the dead man. She had only seen one dead person before, and wasn’t at all comfortable in the presence of death. She hadn’t even been able to make herself view Caroline’s body. It brought back too many memories of the past.
A shiver trembled through her, and Christopher turned, his eyes darkening. He moved quickly toward her, his head jerking toward the couch. “Come on, let’s go somewhere else.”
Christopher took Gemma's arm, one hand on her back as he guided her out of the room.
“Gemma, this is my associate, Donavon,” Christopher introduced her to the man following them.
Gemma nodded her head at the grave-looking Donavon as they moved into the corridor.
The older man’s voice shook slightly when he spoke, his response automatic. “Lovely to meet you, Gemma.”
Gemma murmured a soft hello, her mind torn between the past and the future. A few years ago one of her students had terrified the crap out of her when he handed in the science paper he'd been working on for extra credit. The end of the world as we know it. If it had been any other student, Gemma might have laughed at the dramatic title, but Mathew Spencer wasn't just any kid.
Diagnosed with Asperger syndrome, a form of autism, Mathew's world was black and white. There was no in between.
He took every word literally, didn't understand jokes, and spoke the plain truth without exaggeration of any kind.
Filled with facts and statistics, Mathew's paper had Gemma heading for the internet to do further research, and played no small part in the purchase of the small hobby farm she'd bought.
At the time she told herself she was just being sentimental – she had grown up on a farm as a child, and had been looking to purchase something anyway, although a small apartment was more within her budget. Even though it seemed a little on the wrong side of paranoid at the time, she managed to scrape together what she needed for the deposit.
It was the best thing she had ever done. She loved the peace and quiet, and had always dreamed of owning her own farm. Even though it was small, it was large enough that she had fresh eggs on demand, a vegetable patch, and quite a few fruit trees. And then there was her pride and joy – the strawberry patch.
More than once she had silently thanked Mathew. If it hadn't been for his paper, she would have been living in a small apartment in town.
She could almost remember the opening paragraph word for word, Matty's stark, matter-of-fact way of writing had burned it into her brain.
An electromagnetic pulse, also known as an EMP, will bring about the end of the world as we know it. EMPs can be caused by solar storms or by nuclear weapons detonated high in the atmosphere. When it happens the power grids will fail. There will be no electricity, water, heating, gas or sanitation. The EMP will burn out computer circuits. Airplanes, cars, computers, phones, pacemakers and anything with computer chips will stop working. In the first few minutes in America, between 250 000 and 500 000 people will be dead.
Gemma felt a chill pass through her. If the predictions were right, it was possible that half a million people were already dead; the plane had just been the beginning. How many people had been in the air when it happened? How many people relied on pacemakers or other machines to survive?
It was too hard to think about. The only thing she knew was that it was time to get out of the city and back to CJ. And the sooner the better.
3
Twenty minutes later Christopher was staring out the window of the waiting area, trying to absorb what he was hearing. It hardly seemed possible – but if what Gemma and Gordon were saying was true – they had literally been thrown back to the dark ages.
He
had vague recollections about the warnings from NASA early in 2012, but like most of the population, he hadn't taken any of it very seriously. He led a busy life, he didn't have time for what ifs and maybes.
In the distance, plumes of smoke were rising into the air. The reality of what he was seeing started to sink in as his gaze drifted to the one most likely caused by the plane crash.
On the street below pockets of people were forming into small groups. Others sat in their cars, the doors wide open in the heat of the day. Some sat on the curb, or in bus shelters, waiting for help that was unlikely to come anytime soon. A woman with a screaming toddler under one arm struggled to pull a stroller from the trunk of her car, her frightened face breaking into a smile when a teenage girl grabbed the stroller and set it on the ground, both of them laughing at her clumsy attempts to pull it open.
So far there was none of the panic that Gordon Greenvale– their very own doomsayer – was prophesying. Gordon regarded himself as something of an expert, having coming out of the closet about his secret penchant for apocalyptic thrillers, spurting random bits of fiction as though they were fact. There was a manic gleam in his eye as he prowled about.
“You might want to slow down on that,” Anne said, the disapproval clear in her tone.
Christopher turned away from the window with a heavy sigh. Anne's face was strained as she watched Sasha attempt to pour another drink, her hand shaking so badly that very little was going into the glass.
Sasha wobbled slightly in her ridiculously high heels as she turned on Anne, her mouth curling into an ugly sneer, her words slurring slightly. “Why? If whash – what – you're all saying is true, it's the end of the world.”
“That's no reason to drink yourself into a coma.” Anne narrowed her eyes.
“I just lost my husband.” Sasha's eyes brimmed with tears, her hand shaking more violently.
“Here, let me help.” Christopher's hand closed over Sasha's cold fingers as he steadied her, allowing a small nip to pass into the glass before swiftly pulling the bottle away.