Days' End

by Scott L Collins

  “Thank you for calling the Santa Monica Airport, how may I help you?” a friendly female voice answered.

  “I am trying to track down a flight that left your airport January thirtieth. I would like to know the destination of the flight. Who would I need to speak to in order to get that information?”

  “You would need to speak to Tower Control. Hold a minute and I’ll connect you.”

  “Tower,” answered a gruff voice on the other end of the line.

  “I’m trying to track down the destination of a flight that took off from your airport, please.”

  “That is restricted information, sir. I can’t release it without the authorization of the pilot or a court order. Are you the pilot?”

  “No,” Alastair answered.

  “Do you have a court order?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry. I cannot give you that information. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “I don’t think you understand. My girlfriend’s life may be in danger. There is a tidal wave headed toward the east coast, and I have to make sure she’s safe. Is there any way to find out where she went?” Alastair was near panic.

  “I’m sorry. Did you say tidal wave?” the man replied.

  “Yes. A tidal wave is racing across the Atlantic Ocean toward the east coast destroying everything in its path. I need to find out where my fiancée went so I can make sure she’s safe.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about a tidal wave. What on earth are you talking about?” the man asked.

  “Turn on the news, for crying out loud!” Alastair yelled into the phone. “It’s on every fuckin’ channel. I need to know where she went!”

  “Sir, I need you to settle down if you want to continue this conversation. Let me get this straight. Your girlfriend took a flight out of this airport but didn’t tell you where she was going?” The tone of his voice was skeptical.

  “She’s working on some secret project and they wouldn’t even tell her where the flight was headed. I have to find out where she went! Is there any way you can help me?” Alastair had been reduced to pleading. He could hear the desperation in his voice.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but no. Regardless of whether or not there is a tidal wave, I am not at liberty to divulge that information, and from the sound of it she wouldn’t want me to. Goodbye.” The line went dead.

  “Shit!” Alastair threw the phone across the room. “Shit, shit, shit!” He didn’t have time for this. He continued pacing. How could he get the flight plan? The airport personnel obviously weren’t willing to help, but where else could he go? He didn’t know anybody else even associated with the project Nysa was working on. His only lead was the destination of her flight. He had to find out where she’d gone.

  He looked at his computer. He sat down and stared at the screen.

  Hacking. Getting into an airport’s computer system would take him days, even if he worked twenty-four-seven, but Nysa’s life was at stake. He got up and retrieved the phone. He had calls to make to some old associates. After an hour of phone calls, lots of begging, and an endless amount of trying to explain why he needed to hack the system, he had recruited five of his old hacking buddies to help him.

  Because they knew one another and had worked together in the past, the attack plan came quickly and naturally. He’d have paid whatever he could, but it hadn’t come to that. Getting into such a secure system would be their only reward, and he had not needed to provide any additional incentive to obtain their help. It was nice having friends you could count on in a pinch.

  They had formed the group while in college. A few were friends within Alastair’s fraternity; others he had met in his various computer classes. Patrick had been one of his pledge brothers, and they had quickly bonded due to their expertise in computers. They’d spent many an hour messing with online gamers. There had been nothing quite like the satisfaction of stealing fantasy weapons from some geek who had spent weeks or even months trying to acquire them.

  Todd had been another fraternity brother. He had been a year ahead of both Alastair and Patrick. He was the one who had introduced them to the school’s records system. Wanting to minimize the trail leading back to them, they had not altered their own grades, merely the data of those willing to pay. The money they’d earned had subsidized quite a few Jack and Cokes.

  David and Kane had been picked up from one of Todd’s upper division programming classes. While he never had any facts to back up his suspicions, Alastair had always thought they were more than just friends. Last, but not least, had come Foxy. Alastair wasn’t even sure what his real name was. They had met him through friends of Kane.

  Most of the group’s activities had been juvenile in nature. Every year the incoming class of freshman was given a directory for various offices around campus, local restaurants that delivered, and other quasi-important phone numbers. Alastair and the gang had switched the number for the local Pizza Hut to that of the Dean of Admissions. It had taken the Dean quite some time to figure out why he was getting calls at two in the morning for a large pepperoni.

  The process of hacking into the airport’s tower logs began slowly, poking and prodding at the various security systems in place to try and find a weakness. None of the usual backdoors worked. The time dragged by, the Cokes disappeared, the carton of cigarettes in the freezer gradually went up in smoke (he got a little chuckle when that thought occurred to him). By the time one o’clock in the morning rolled around, Alastair was sick with worry. They had made very little progress in hacking into the little airport’s communications tower.

  The phone rang. Alastair, who had been leaning back in his chair, tipped over. He climbed back to his knees, righted the overturned chair, and while rubbing the knot on the back of his head with one hand, snatched up the phone with the other.

  “Hello?”

  “Good news, buddy, I’m in,” came a voice on the other end of the line. He knew immediately it was Patrick.

  “Great, where did the flight go?” Alastair blurted out.

  “I’m not sure. You never gave me any details of the flight we’re looking for, and I left my psychic abilities in my gym bag. When did the flight leave?”

  “January thirtieth, in the morning—I’m not sure of the exact time.” Alastair heard the sound of Patrick pecking away at his keyboard.

  “That narrows it down to eight private flights, assuming that by morning you mean between eight and noon.”

  “Where did they go?” Alastair’s heart was racing in his chest.

  “Two of them flew to Seattle and left roughly fifteen minutes apart. I would guess that they were traveling together. One went to Houston, one to Mexico, one to Colorado Springs, two to New York, and the last one went to Chicago. Who’s your daddy?”

  “Stop screwing around. The two that went to New York, when did they take off?” Alastair could feel the Coke churning in his stomach. He thought he might throw up.

  “One left at eight, the other at nine thirty. Does that help?” Patrick, although a smart ass, was a good guy. He and Alastair had been very close during their college days and seemed to sense the importance of the information.

  “The one that left at eight is out, she left here at about that time, but the nine thirty would be do-able. Any more information you can give me about that flight?”

  “The plane was a Cessna Sovereign. The flight plan was filed by a Mike Richard. Not really much more I can make out. The page is mostly codes and abbreviations. Sorry man.”

  “No worries.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Hey, can you do me a favor and pull up the names for all eight flights. Look for Scario or Stevens.” Alastair knew he was getting his hopes up, but this just might work. If they were in the system, he might be able to not only find out that she was safe, but could also get an idea of where she went.

  “Nothing for the two Seattle flights. We don’t need to check that New York flight, Richard is the other, Houston no. What? Crap, I just got
booted. Apparently they saw me poking around in their system. Good thing I set it up so they would trace it back to you. Is that your doorbell?” Patrick snickered. “Sorry man, I lost the connection. I hope you got enough information, I don’t think we should poke around anymore now that they know someone got in. I like you and all, but I really have no desire to be on intimate terms with a large hairy man named Bubba.”

  “No, you’re right. Thanks, I got what I was looking for. Nysa’s safe. That’s all that really matters. Thanks for the help bud, I owe you one.” Alastair now thought he would vomit from relief.

  “Don’t sweat it, man. Just another feather in my cap. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do, or just give me a call sometime. It’s good to hear from you. Let me know when we can go out for a beer.”

  Alastair realized now was not the time to discuss his sobriety. “Yeah, thanks again.” He hung up the phone and collapsed on the couch. Although the whole process had taken less time than his work day, the stress had drained him of all energy. He picked up the remote and turned the television back on.

  The tsunami had already caused massive destruction throughout the Atlantic. Pretty much every coastline had been devastated. Alastair could only watch as the pictures flashed by. Entire cities were gone, replaced with wreckage and muddy water. Lisbon, Portugal, was reduced to a pile of rubble. Survivors waded through the muddy waters looking for loved ones and precious belongings. Cork, Ireland, once a beautiful seaside city, was decimated. The pictures and footage of the town were appalling. Dead sea life was strewn about, giving the impression that a fishing factory had exploded. Ships lay on their side with no ocean in sight. What used to be streets were crowded with bloated bodies, a combination of the aquatic and human casualties. Alastair had difficulty telling them apart.

  “This is what is in store for the eastern seaboard,” Alastair whispered. The thought was more than he could bear in his already emotionally and physically exhausted state. He could only pray that the population on that side of the country had been given ample warning and heeded it. He shut off the television and went to bed hoping for a long dreamless sleep.

  February 16, 8:00 AM

  Outside Castle Rock, CO

  Nysa entered the lab to find Dr. Leyden already hard at work. He didn’t seem to be in a very receptive mood, so Nysa took a seat at one of the desks to look over his notes from the previous day. According to what he had written, this stage might take a while. The pieces she had been able to recover had fragmented severely and, while his abilities far exceeded those of his peers, he was still left with quite a mess. His estimate for being able to reconstruct a single strand of DNA, which they would then replicate, was in the neighborhood of two months. Although this seemed to be an accomplishment to Nysa, she could tell by the tone that he found it unacceptable. Nysa closed the notebook and stood up from the desk.

  “I’m going to go check on the other labs. Can I bring you back anything?” she asked as she strode to the elevator.

  “The largest cup of coffee you can find, as thick as you can find it. I want to feel the hair on my balls growing as I drink it.”

  “Hmmm. Pleasant visual, thanks.” She turned and left the room.

  She returned about an hour later with some kind of sludge that oozed out of the cup rather than poured, but Dr. Leyden seemed pleased. He took a few large gulps of the muck and turned back to his computer. Nysa took this as a sign that now was not the time to socialize. Mary Alice and Laura were wandering around the lab attempting to look busy but having a hard time of it.

  “Why don’t you two take the day off? I don’t think Dr. Leyden will be asking for any assistance from us today. I’ll be using you both a great deal during the next stage of the project, and you’ll need the extra rest. Go have a nice day outside; it might be the last opportunity you have once we get the DNA put back together.”

  The two assistants practically ran from the room. As the elevator door shut, Nysa walked back to the computer Dr. Leyden was using.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Nysa asked.

  “Nope. I really wish there were, but we’ve got all the DNA we can get from those rags, and you don’t know how to use this computer program. I don’t really have the time to teach you, so unless you can find a magic sample for me to base this reconstruction off of, I don’t see anything you can do to help. Sorry.”

  “If you want to show me what you’re doing, we might be able to make this process go a bit faster.” Nysa could see him squirm in his chair. “Relax, I am a doctor, and my fiancé is a computer programmer so I do know a bit about them.”

  “Tell you what,” he replied. “Give me until lunch to try and get a bit more done, and then I’ll give you a tutorial. Make me a promise, though. If you don’t catch on quickly, let me continue my work uninterrupted.”

  “Deal,” she replied and left the room.

  After lunch she returned for her lesson. Although the process was difficult, her time with Alastair had solidified her expert grasp of computers. By the time two o’clock rolled, around she could handle short sessions at the controls by herself. She still had to ask the occasional question, but Dr. Leyden acted impressed with her grasp of the program.

  “You know, if we keep up this pace, we might just be able to get this done before our deadline.” Dr. Leyden stopped playing with his hair and sat down next to Nysa. “So what do you think, Dr. Knight?” Dr. Leyden inquired. “If and when we get the DNA reconstructed, replicated, and a viable embryo is created, what then? Who is going to mother this child?”

  Nysa started. “I’m not sure. To be honest, I hadn’t given it any thought. I figure we’ll find out once we reach that point. With how secretive everything is around here, I don’t think it’ll be posted on any bulletin boards.” Nysa went back to her work, trying to focus on the task at hand.

  I am forced to keep moving from place to place to conceal who I am. Surely if I stay in one place for too long someone will start asking questions. My latest move was nearly a disaster as some of my most valued possessions went missing. They were worth quite a large sum of money and were extremely difficult to acquire. Luckily, a World War tends to cover one’s tracks while also providing a scapegoat. While I was quite wealthy before, the Germans will take the blame while I take the opportunity to add to my assets. I know I should feel guilty for stealing from innocent families, but I’ve become the monster everyone believes me to be, so does it really matter? All turned out well as I was able to reacquire them from the house of one of the men that I hired for the move. I am sure he will not be missed.

  February 17, Los Angeles, CA

  Alastair had never seen anything like it. He followed the news reports on an hourly basis, checking them repeatedly while at work. He had not been this preoccupied with a news story since the attacks of 9/11.

  The chaos and destruction were indescribable. Entire cities reduced to rubble, fleets gone, and carcasses of every variety strewn about like toys in a child’s room. Reports were still sketchy at best. The number of missing persons was disturbingly high.

  The eastern seaboard was for all intents and purposes gone. New York City, Atlantic City, Miami—all were all a pile of wreckage, death, and grief.

  The images of New York City he found especially disturbing. The once proud, once rebuilt city of New York had been reduced to ruins. After the World Trade Center attacks, media images had been of a demolished building being swarmed by rescuers and volunteers. The current pictures and live video were of a decimated city with a few floundering people left.

  It didn’t even look like a city anymore. It looked like a construction site discard pile. Car parts, ship parts, and body parts littered the landscape. The few survivors picked through the debris as they had on that fateful day in September of 2001, hoping, praying to find others alive. Alastair could only mourn, knowing that even if some people had survived the initial impact of the wave, they had most likely drowned or had been battered to death in the chu
rning waters.

  The image that kept popping up in all of the stories was of a mother and her infant son from southern Georgia. While she had done all she could to protect her child, she had been unable to outrun Mother Nature. According to the news story, she had heeded the warnings and attempted to move inland, to higher ground. She hadn’t had a car so she had started out on foot. She hadn’t been fast enough. The picture was of her, covered in mud and waste, the remains of her dress torn and bloody, sitting on what appeared to be the concrete steps that should lead up to the front door of a house. However, there was no welcoming front door behind her, only a vast wasteland of wreckage. Shattered boards and beams mixed with branches and tree roots littered the landscape where the house had once stood. She sat curled around her deceased child, quietly weeping. Tears streaked down her face and collected on her chin, where they eventually dripped on to the lifeless toddler in her lap. She slowly stroked the child’s hair and gently rocked him.

  How could God allow such a thing? thought Alastair. Although he was not religious like his father, he did believe in something out there that was more powerful than himself. How could any God, Allah, Buddha, whomever, allow something this dreadful to happen? Alastair, while not having children of his own, could only imagine the wretched pain and despair the woman in the picture was feeling. The tenderness with which she was holding the small boy, and the hopelessness in her face, would be forever etched in his memory.

  Late February-Early March, Outside Castle Rock, CO