FOREWORD

by Ten To Midnight--Free(Lit)

  “Thank you, Mike.”

  He looked around him, taking in the scene of well-rehearsed chaos and ticking items off a mental checklist of tasks that had to be performed before the world was torn asunder. Like cleaning a house in preparation for visiting relatives. A thousand megatons of visiting relatives.

  The most important role at this early stage was that of the Director of Civil Defense. It was his job to activate the Emergency Alerting System and initiate air raid sirens around the Washington D.C. metropolitan area. There were about forty of them, generally located at strategic points atop high buildings throughout the capital.

  The staff at Olney were among the first people in Washington to learn of the imminent attack. Within a couple of minutes, everybody else in the capital would also know.

  PHELPS, TEXAS; 65 MILES NORTH OF HOUSTON

  “Well, that’s it,” Tabatha announced as the pick-up slowed to a halt. “We’re out of gas.”

  “Fucking great,” Nina snorted, looking around her. They were on a dark country road. Although they were only a couple of miles away from the Interstate, there was no traffic in sight. There was no anything in sight. Not even streetlights. Just fields and the dim glow of a full moon. She looked up at the star drenched sky, not remembering the last time she’d seen so many stars. It was pretty, but also kind of awesome. It made her feel even smaller and insignificant than she already felt.

  “I’m scared,” Rhonda announced. “It’s scary out here.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of,” Nina said, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Not accordin’ to Big Sis.”

  Tabatha stared icily at her. She was scared too. Scared that she would let the kids down, that she wouldn’t be able to protect them out here. Damn, I’m a city girl. I hate the fucking boondocks. This was alien territory, full of risks and dangers she couldn’t even imagine. But experience had taught her that the best way to deal with fear was to tackle it head on. After all, she’d spent most of her young life doing just that.

  “Come on,” she said finally. “Let’s check this place out.” Sensing the reluctance of the others, she added, “W’all stick together, right? If any of ya’ wander off, I’ll kill ya’.”

  That seemed to inspire a certain amount of confidence. Not much, but it would have to do for now.

  Tabatha climbed out of the pick up. Nina, Rhonda and Gary joined her.

  The muggy night rang with the sound of libidinous crickets. The humidity caused Tabatha’s cotton blouse to cling to her skin. She hated this time of year. This was the time of year that you got big, motherfucking bugs. ‘Specially at night, she thought. Tabatha hated bugs.

  Anticipating Nina’s question, she pointed in the direction the truck was facing. “This way,” she said.

  The four children headed off, treading carefully, holding hands with each other. They took comfort in numbers. Always had done.

  “Momma always says that country folk don’t like black folks,” Nina pointed out.

  “Well I don’t like them much either,” Tabatha said. “But we ain’t got much choice. Now shut up before you scare Gary.”

  Nina huffed. “I’m tired of you talkin’ down at me. You only a couple of years older than me.”

  “Fine,” Tabatha told her. “Then you decide what we do. You be in charge.”

  Nina hung her head. She didn’t have any better ideas. It was just that she was scared. But wasn’t everybody? Even those folks back on the Interstate had looked scared. “You really buy that shit about a war?” she asked, unaware that the fear had finally crept into her own voice.

  Tabatha shrugged. “I dunno. Ain’t nothin’ we can do ‘bout it, anyways.” She narrowed her eyes, searching for any sign of civilization. Her peripheral vision registered an oblong shape in the distance, slightly darker than the horizon. Her hopes lifted.

  “Over there.” She pointed at the shape. “Could be a barn or sum’ tin.”

  “I don’t wanna sleep in a barn,” Rhonda whined. “You get rats and shit in barns.”

  “You prefer it out here?” Tabatha asked her. Rhonda shook her head. “Didn’t think so. Look on the bright side. It could be a house.”

  Nina stared at her incredulously. “You gonna break in?”

  “No, dummy. I’m gonna knock on the door and ask if they’ve got a spare room for four nigger kids. ‘Course I’m gonna break in, stoopid. As long as nobody’s there.”

  They headed towards the building. None of them said a word. It was a conscious attempt not to attract any unwanted attention.

  It soon became apparent that the building was indeed a house. A traditional, wooden house with a porch; the kind that was common in this part of the country. Nothing special, but at least it was shelter. There was a chicken coop at the back, so the owner was probably a farmer, Tabatha guessed. Well, so was everybody else in the boondocks, she figured.

  An old pick up was parked outside the house, but it didn’t look in any usable condition. By the look of it, the only place it was going was to the junkyard. This was the point at which Tabatha really became scared. She had to check whether the place was empty, and the only way she could do that was to knock. But what if somebody answered? What then?

  I’ll deal with that when it comes to it.

  “You sure ‘bout this, Tabby?” Nina asked. She was considering hiding behind the pick up until Tabatha had checked the house for occupants. But she didn’t want to be left out here alone.

  “Ain’t got much choice, have I?”

  With some trepidation, Tabatha stepped up to the front door, knocked lightly and waited.

  Nothing.

  She knocked again, this time with slightly more force.

  Still nothing.

  “It’s empty,” she concluded, trying the doorknob. Fortunately, it was unlocked, saving her the bother of having to pick the lock. She stepped inside, her younger siblings close behind her.

  The first thing they noticed was the rancid stench; a stale odor that invoked visions of dry rot and putrefying food. Rhonda clasped her hand over her mouth and nose.

  “Shee-it!” Nina exclaimed. “Somebody die in here?”

  That thought had already occurred to Tabatha. “Don’t be stoopid,” she snapped. “Just got a hygiene problem, thass all.”

  “When we goin’ home?” Gary moaned.

  “Tomorrow,” Nina lied reassuringly. “We goin’ home tomorrow.”

  The four children took careful steps, feeling their way along the walls. They entered what sufficed for a breakfast room. Tabatha resisted the temptation to switch on the light, although for some reason it seemed brighter in here than it had done outside. Perhaps her eyes had adapted to the dark, she thought. She also noticed that the stench was much stronger in this room.

  “I think I liked it more outside,” Nina remarked. She wasn’t the only one. Even Tabatha was beginning to have her doubts. What if somethingisdead in here? Damn. I don’t know what a dead body smells like. Don’t want to know.

  The room had a storm door that led to a ramshackle greenhouse. For some reason, the prospect of going out there sent a shiver down Tabatha’s spine. It was almost as if a sixth instinct was warning her against it. Something bad out there, and I don’t want to know what it is.

  “I think w’all should get outa here,” she heard herself say. “It ain’t safe.”

  “No shit,” Nina agreed.

  As they turned back the way they came, a hand flicked on the light switch. A large, rough hand. Tabatha swung around -

  - to find herself staring down the barrel of a twelve bore shotgun.

  She jumped in fright, instinctively grabbing Nina’s hand.

  The man holding the gun looked to be in his mid-forties with narrow weather beaten features. His small menacing eyes and thin rancorous lips lent themselves to malevolence. He was wearing a pair of grimy dungarees, one strap hanging loosely at his side. And, despite his thin face, he looked big enough to crush any of the four children with his bare hands.
>
  “You kids are in a world of shit,” he told them in a slow, sinister drawl.

  FLIGHT UA4171, OVER NORTH ATLANTIC

  “So,” Richie Gellis smirked cheekily at the blonde flight attendant as she served him a mini can of beer. “Do you get frequent flyer miles in this job, or what?”

  “We get…” She paused, handing him his can. “… certain concessions.”

  He raised a libidinous eyebrow at her, wondering for how long she would be in Moscow. Female companionship was usually thin on the ground in the Russian capital, unless one wanted to pay for it and risk catching something wholly undesirable. The attendant smiled at him and quickly moved on to the next passenger. Gellis made sure he got a good view of her pert backside as she did so.

  She thinks I’m cute, he mused.

  What an asshole, she thought.

  He opened a compartment in the arm of his reclining seat and erected the small television monitor. A quick check of the in-flight film guide told him that he had a choice of movies; from Leonardo DiCaprio’s Oscar-winning adaptation ofHamlet , to Sigourney Weaver’s latest outing inAlien Incursion Gellis put on his headphones and began to flick through the various channels as he sipped from his can of beer.

  The night outside was black as sackcloth. Gellis lowered his blind and adjusted his seat into a reclining position, debating whether to grab a few hours’ sleep. He doubted whether he would get much sleep once he arrived in Moscow.

  The Captain, cutting into the in-flight entertainment system, interrupted his train of thought.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the Captain speaking. Because of technical difficulties, we are unable to land in Moscow at the present time. Instead, we’re diverting to Frankfurt…”

  “What the hell…” Gellis muttered under his breath. He removed his headphones and craned his neck to see what was going on. There appeared to be a lot of activity taking place towards the front of the cabin, outside the cockpit. Three flight attendants were talking in hushed tones, their expressions indicative of the tense atmosphere among the cabin crew. A buzz of exasperation resounded through the cabin as other passengers complained to each other and speculated about the reasons for the diversion.

  “… will be landing approximately three and a half hours earlier than planned,” the Captain was explaining.

  The man sitting next to Gellis - some kind of businessman, judging by his expensive looking designer suit - said, “They’ve probably had a power cut in Moscow or something.”

  Gellis stared at him. His journalistic instinct had been aroused. Something wasn’t right here. What technical difficulties? Is that all he’s telling us? And why do the flight attendants look so anxious? “I’m going to find out what’s going on,” he told his neighbor, standing up.

  He walked towards the front of the plane, reaching into his pocket for his press ID. As he approached the cockpit door, the blonde attendant who had served him a few moments’ earlier stopped him.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go in there,” she told him.

  Gellis flashed his press card. “I’m a reporter for the New York Post, Ma’am. Our readers are depending on me getting to Moscow to tell them what’s going on over there. So I owe it to them to know why we’re not going to Moscow.”

  Oh, what the hell?the attendant thought to herself. “Well, Mister” - she checked his card - “Gellis. I think your readers will probably already know why you’re not going to Moscow.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Huh?”

  She spoke in an even monotone, as if she were remarking on the weather. “You see, Mr. Gellis. There is no Moscow any more. It was destroyed by a nuclear blast about half an hour ago.”

  Gellis stared at her, his eyes wide with disbelief. “I hope you’re fucking joking,” he muttered, knowing that nobody would joke about such a thing. He felt his legs weaken. “Who… Why?”

  “That’s all I know, I promise,” she said quietly, already reproaching herself for having told him. “Please, do us all a favor and keep this to yourself, huh? The last thing we need right now is a panic.”

  “But don’t you think the other passengers have a right to know?”

  She hung her head in bemusement. “Mr. Gellis, I’m as scared as you are right now. God knows what it’s like down on the ground. Imagine what it’ll be like if you start telling everybody what’s happening. They’ll demand to know everything, and when we tell them that we don’t know, they won’t believe us. And then we’ll have anextremely ugly situation on our hands. Do you want to be responsible for that?”

  Gellis took a moment to consider her point. Eventually, he nodded his reluctant agreement. “Okay,” he said, “you’re right. I’ll agree to keepschtum on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That if you find out any more information, you let me know immediately, right?”

  “Deal.”

  He returned to his seat, his stomach churning with fear. Knowing only half the story was perhaps the worst possible position to be in right now, he realized. It would have been better to knowall the details, or nothing at all. How much do people on the ground know?he wondered.

  “So,” the businessman next to Gellis asked cheerfully, “what’s the story?”

  Gellis attempted to put on a brave smile. “Like you said, power cut at Shermeteyevo.”

  BROOKLAND, WASHINGTON D.C.

  Donald and Mary Patterson, like millions of other Americans that evening, had been watching the crisis develop live on GCN, a real-life soap opera. And, like most of their fellow countrymen, they were both frightened and disbelieving that their country could be on the verge of nuclear war. The news reports seemed so abstract, nothing to do with the daily business of going to work and worrying about saving enough money to buy nice birthday presents for the kids. Besides, they had thought that the threat of nuclear war was supposed to have diminished with the end of the Cold War. They couldn’t understand why the government was evacuating just because of a distant conflict in which America wasn’t even involved. Their fear was borne out of a sheer lack of comprehension. Like many Americans at that moment, they simply assumed that the government suits knew something they didn’t.

  The kids - too young to understand what was going on, thank God - were safely tucked up in bed, oblivious to the terrible events unfolding in the adult world. Mary had just phoned her mother in Idaho to make sure that she was okay and that she had enough food in her cupboards to survive in the event of a nuclear attack. Donald, like many ordinary American men, tried to ignore his own fears by concentrating on the abstractions being discussed on GCN. Why was the government evacuating? What would happen next? Who was in charge in Moscow now?

  He picked up the remote control and switched the channel to a local Washington affiliate.

  “… resulting in several hundred fender-benders as citizens attempt to flee the metropolitan area,” the anchorwoman was reporting over aerial footage of jammed highways and automobile collisions. “The Maryland State Police and the Federal Emergency Management Agency are advising people to stay at home, and not to venture out unless absolutely necessary. The Mayor of Washington has declared a State of Emergency and called in the National Guard to maintain law and order in several boroughs. Meanwhile, citizens are advised that the following routes have been restricted to military and Federal vehicles only: US-1, the I-95 and I-495 Beltway, I-270 and I-395. A statement just released by FEMA’s Washington bureau advises that citizens attempting to use these roads to leave the city will be turned back by the US Army, by force if necessary…”

  “This is just too unreal,” Mary muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. “It’s all going too fast.”

  “Don’t worry,” Donald reassured her. “The talking heads are saying that this is just standard procedure. The President will probably be back at the White House within the hour. Just a storm in a teacup, that’s all.” He didn’t believe for a moment that the U.S. government was going to start World War T
hree over a piece of war torn wasteland somewhere in Eastern Europe.

  “So why is everybody so scared?” she asked, pointing at the TV screen. “Even the newsreader looks shaky. Look at her face.”

  Donald chuckled condescendingly. “Listen, honey. Whenever you mention nukes, people panic. Tomorrow, everybody will be feeling pretty damn stupid for overreacting so much.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  An off-screen assistant handed the anchorwoman a slip of paper. She read it into the camera. “I’ve just been handed another FEMA advisory, recommending what citizens should do in the unlikely event of a nuclear attack. When the…”

  Presently, the picture was replaced by a plain red screen with the caption ‘EMERGENCY ALERTING SYSTEM’ emblazoned in large white letters. The accompanying high pitched hum caused Mary’s stomach to clench into a fist of ice. It was followed by a prerecorded announcement. The female voice was calm and impassive.

  “This is the Emergency Alerting System,” it said. “An air raid is in progress. Citizens in the Washington D.C. metropolitan area are advised to remain in their homes or proceed to the nearest convenient place of shelter.”

  Initially, Donald did what any other American man might have done. He picked up the remote control and switched channels. But the announcement was being broadcast on every commercial wavelength.

  By the time he realized this, the air raid sirens were clearly audible from outside.

  Mary grabbed her husband by the scruff of the neck, her voice hysterical. “What do we do now, Donald? What do we do?”

  He was shaking his head and staring blankly at the TV, which was continually looping the EAS tone and announcement. “I don’t know, honey,” he said, his voice distant. “I really don’t know.”

  In his Washington apartment, a mildly disturbed man called Philip Cole was watchingIndependence Day on video for about the hundredth time. The divorced father of three had no friends and only two interests; horror books and disaster movies. His current favorite wasIndependence Day . He knew the script by heart, but still watched the film at least three times a week.