End Days Super Boxset

by Hayden, Roger

  The volume on the television increased tenfold as Paul's full attention was locked on the broadcast newsman. He was an older gentleman, gray-haired and sharply dressed in dark brown tweed suit with blue tie. He read from a series of notes listed on a sheet of paper that he held in his hand, similar to how anchors read the news in the old days. In the right-hand corner of the screen was an imposed box with the title that read: The End of Days?

  "While officials scramble to provide the numbers for casualties in the ten states reportedly hit with some range of nuclear weapon, we can be most tragically assured that they rank in the hundreds of thousands, if not millions."

  The small box in the corner presented a montage of shots from throughout the country. The images showed vandalism and destruction, civil unrest, and the aftermath of explosions in various cities. The newscaster wiped a tear from his eye with one finger. He paused to clear his throat, then proceeded with the news.

  "This leads hundreds of millions of other Americans to ask, what next? What next for areas not devastated by attacks, but reeling from weeks of no power due to faulty electrical grids? The loss of electricity itself has been pondered over by experts and officials for some time now. The most widely believed reason behind the strange surge of power outages involves electronic magnetic pulses, otherwise known as EMPs.

  Others argue that the rolling blackouts, brownouts, and severe power outages are attributed to an overall failure in the nation's recently conjoined power grid, or a national failure of energy producers to manage power after such devastation. Perhaps the most damning question of all represents the whereabouts of the federal government. President Howard, the Vice President, and several members of their administration have not been heard from since the attacks started and are feared dead along with hundreds of thousands or, perhaps millions, of Americans along the East Coast."

  "Of course it's millions, you idiot," Paul said to the TV.

  "Functioning states have taken steps to declare martial law to deal with the widespread swarm of evacuees from neighboring states looking for refuge. The governor of Louisiana, for instance, was quoted as saying, 'Without the aid of the federal government, all states must accept their constitutional responsibility to act on their own.' After up to three weeks and no end in sight from what has befallen our great nation, the country is left with an unimaginable outcome: the East Coast obliterated in a single day.

  The questions we face are elementary in nature. Who, what, when, why, and how? Who committed the greatest single act of terrorism ever committed in human history? No single terrorist group has claimed responsibility, though experts have concluded the attacks were too elaborate for a terror cell or network to achieve, leading many to believe they were from a nation, perhaps several nations.

  While Americans in certain areas reel from losses large and heavy, officials have to contend with perhaps more attacks. Hours ago, there were reports of a bomb known as "the megabomb” missing from the country’s nuclear artillery. If detonated, the bomb could potentially take out the rest of the country in a single blast. If you're watching this broadcast and you're lucky enough to have power, you are advised to seek shelter until more information is known. If true, it is all too obvious that we must stop "the megabomb" before it is too late."

  Suddenly the picture switched to color bars, ending the newscaster's broadcast. "What the hell?" Paul said, punching the button on the remote to his side. Each following channel displayed color bars. Then came static. "We need to know more, dammit! Tell us more!" he shouted.

  "Paul," Julie called out, standing outside the bathroom. In response, Paul switched off the television and turned to Julie.

  "We need to find my mom before it's too late," she said.

  "Yes, Julie. We'll stay here a little longer--"

  "She's not coming back, I know it. I don't know if someone took her or if she just left, but she's not coming back."

  Paul took a seat on the bed. "It would seem that way." Then it occurred to him that the power was on. He knew Samantha's number by heart now. "Let's try her phone," he said excitedly while picking up the hotel landline receiver. He dialed her number and it went to her voicemail. Though she didn't answer, it was a gratifying relief just to hear the sound of her voice.

  "We're sorry, this mailbox is full," an automated voice said that followed her message. Paul tried the number five more times before he gave up. He wanted to shout at the top of his lungs but tried to control his temper. Julie walked around the room, shutting off the lights.

  "As cool as it is to have power, we shouldn't bring attention to ourselves," she said.

  Paul had to admit, she was playing the survival game pretty well. He wondered if she was getting better at it than him. He then thought of another phone number to call. He fished the lawyer's card from his pocket, holding it under the one lamp that had been left on.

  Before dialing, Paul looked at the display screen on the hotel phone. The small digital screen listed a brief call history of previous numbers dialed. The last call made on the phone, other than Samantha's number, was the exact same number listed on the back of the card. Paul attempted to dial in haste. His fingers flubbed over the digits. He had to hang-up and try again three different times.

  3--0--3--2--5--4--5--5--4--7

  He was greeted with a few rings followed by voicemail. "Hey, this is Jeff, please leave a message and I'll get back to you ASAP."

  After the beep, Paul received another automated message about a full mailbox. He had no choice but to hang up.

  "Jeff?" Paul said to himself with curiosity.

  "Did you get a hold of anyone?" Julie asked.

  "Not yet," Paul answered.

  He held the backside of the card, then flipped it over. The front part had professional lettering embossed over material. It read: The Legal Offices of Bryant and Bryant, Offices Denver.

  There was no official phone number or addressed listed on the card. "Jeff Bryant," Paul said, putting the first and last name together. "Who is Jeff Bryant?"

  He looked around the room for other signs. In the bathroom, Samantha's hygiene products sat along the shelf. The only thing that had been taken was her traveling suitcase. Either she was coming back or she wasn't. Paul had to make a decision.

  "Julie, we're going to leave the hotel and look for your mom."

  Julie jumped off the bed in excitement. "I knew you'd listen to me," she said with a smile.

  "Yeah right," Paul thought. "She contacted this lawyer. There's no address, but maybe we can find his law office around here."

  "Why would she call him?" Julie asked, almost sounding jealous, even more so than Paul.

  "Maybe she needed help," Paul responded. Their minds were made up. They were going to take their chances outside. As they came to this conclusion, a great deal of commotion followed outside on the ground below. They both walked to the window overlooking downtown Denver and witnessed an army of police trucks, with several dozen armed officers on-ground.

  A growing crowd of displaced people, mostly young and anonymously concealed wearing jackets, pants, hats, and T-shirts covering their faces approached several barriers. The barriers were intended to prevent people from entering "restricted" parts of the city. The police were dressed protectively. They held riot guns loaded with tear gas cartridges. One officer, gripping a large blue megaphone, shouted to the group from atop his horse.

  "This is a restricted area, city occupants are not allowed to get too far from the convention center. Return to the designated areas immediately."

  The crowd disregarded the officer's request and pushed against the barriers in defiance.

  "Masks!" the officer ordered. His men donned gas masks in response.

  The lead officer placed his mask on then shouted again into the megaphone, "Fire!"

  Tear gas canisters launched into the air and hit within a few feet of the crowd. The smoke instantly engulfed the air, causing the protesters to fall to the ground, rubbing their stinging eyes while v
iolently coughing. Other kids pushed past the barriers while covering their faces with shirts, jackets, or whatever else they could find. The group was on the front lines now, practically touching the police officer's shields. Several ran away in fear after taking a hit or two. Others took their lickings and were knocked to the ground unconscious.

  "Yeah perfect, let's go down there," Julie said, walking away from the window.

  "We got lucky the first time the police came up here. They could do another sweep of the floor," Paul said.

  "You said no more danger. You said everything was going to be okay," Julie started.

  "And I'm trying to make it so," Paul said. "We're going, and I don't care what is happening out there. This Jeff Bryant knows where your mom is, and we're going to find him."

  Paul went to the door and opened it. "I won't let anything happen to you, I promise. We'll stay out of sight, out of mind," he said in his most reassuring voice. Julie pulled the blinds shut, walked to the nightstand, and scribbled a note on the hotel-provided memo pad.

  Went looking for you, don't leave! Love, Julie.

  "Hurry up," Paul sai as his eyes shifted to both sides of the hallway.

  Julie grabbed her mom's pocketbook and purple T-shirt. She took one look around the room and then joined Paul in the hallway.

  The streets outside were chaotic. Paul had reservations about going the way they came in, not discounting the fact that a team of police had recently gone through the very door they had smashed. Paul and Julie moved swiftly and carefully from the second floor hallway to the hotel lobby. Once downstairs, they heard the very real sounds of civil unrest right outside the hotel. Out on the streets, the police had effectively pushed the crowd back behind the barriers. Tear gas flowed through the air like hazy fog on an early morning. To Paul, it still looked too dangerous for them to venture out in.

  "We have to look for another way out," he said to Julie, pulling her along.

  They moved into the small dining area where, under different circumstances, they would be having a free Continental breakfast. Just looking around the room made them both realize how hungry they were, though not a crumb of food was around. Paul spotted an emergency exit designed to trigger an alarm if opened. Their plans for a low-key escape looked slimmer by the minute.

  "We'll have to take our chances out the front door," Paul said as they circled back to the lobby.

  They walked outside the dining room to see an agile team of gas-masked riot control officers storm through the front doors in hot pursuit. Paul yanked Julie away from the lobby like a rag doll and ran back to the dining area. He charged the emergency exit door as Julie struggled to keep up. As he pushed the door open, the alarm sounded, naturally drawing the unwanted attention Paul feared. The team leader immediately signaled to his men.

  "Move out!" he shouted from under his gas mask.

  They scurried to the dining area like hawks. As they cleared the room, the emergency exit slowly shut. It didn't take a brilliant tactician to figure out that the person or persons they were looking for had just fled the building.

  "Why are we running from them? We haven't done anything," Julie said.

  She had grown tired of fleeing. Paul slowed to a fast-walking pace and beckoned her to keep up. "We can't let anything get in the way of finding your mother. If they catch us, they're going to prevent that from happening. Understand?"

  Before Julie could answer, the police team stormed outside and took instant notice of them. "Stop right there!" one of the officers said from only twenty feet away. The surrounding streets were nearly empty due to the new off-limits zones. Paul and Julie found themselves directly in the middle of a restricted area. There was no crowd they could blend into. No open store they could hide in. From both sides, empty shops remained closed and the bars on their windows impenetrable. Their only option was to run. Julie gripped Paul's sweaty hand as they ran down the street. The police were close on their heels. She had always been a fast runner, but fear had taken over and she could barely keep up.

  "I said stop!" the lead officer shouted. No time for the Taser gun, he was prepared to make a tackle.

  Paul looked around for anywhere they could evade the authorities. The best he could see was an alleyway ahead past a store on their left. The curvature of their path allowed them a few seconds where they could not be seen by the officers chasing them. Paul took quick notice of this brief advantage.

  "This way," he panted.

  He pulled Julie down the alleyway with him and was instantly filled with dread upon noticing that their path would soon reach a dead end. Brick walls surrounded them. Two large green dumpsters on one side, one on the other. If they could make it behind one of the dumpsters before the police noticed, they would effectively be out of their range. It was exactly what Paul hoped for. One more mad dash and they would be safe. He could hear galloping boots not far from them. They were gaining, and there wasn't much time.

  "We're going to hide by the dumpsters," he informed Julie.

  Her silence meant agreement as far as he was concerned. Just as they made it to the first dumpster on the right, a familiar voice shouted from underneath a gas mask.

  "They're moving down the alleyway!"

  Paul looked around in panic. The buildings they had found themselves between both had doors resembling exit doors for nightclubs. If they weren't bolted shut, it would be their ticket to escape.

  "I seen 'em," one of the masked officers said. "They're hiding down there."

  Paul crept along the brick wall, kneeling as Julie crawled. He pushed on the first door and was met with resistance in return. Footsteps marched carefully towards them, though Paul and Julie still remained concealed. Paul pushed the other door. It was locked, but he could hear voices talking inside. He pounded on the door, not considering the fact that he sounded like he was the police. A slot opened on the lower part of the door. As Paul peeked inside, all he could see was darkness.

  "Who the fuck is it?" the voice asked.

  "Please help us. My name's Paul. I'm with my daughter Julie, and the police are after us."

  Several bolts were unlocked systematically. A moment later, the door creaked open.

  "Hurry up and come in," the unseen voice said.

  Paul and Julie slipped in, finding themselves in a dark, stuffy hall. A man behind them slammed the door shut and re=applied the bolt locks. "Move, move," he said, scurrying Paul and Julie forward.

  Outside the door, the police ran past, then reached the end of the alleyway. "They were down here, sir, I swear," one of the officers said while catching his breath.

  "Either they disappeared into thin air or they slipped into one of the buildings. Either way, we have more important things to take care of," another voice remarked.

  "Won't be the last we see of them, I imagine. They always end up coming back," one added.

  The riot officers left the alleyway in collective indifference. They had a growing crowd of evacuees to contend with who grew more unruly by the day with their additional numbers.

  "So why were you runnin' from the cops?" the man asked them.

  He walked out from the shadows and into a single ray of light that beamed from a small yellow-stained window above. He looked to be in his sixties, or possibly older. His white button dress shirt and black slacks had been rendered torn and ragged by weeks of possible neglect. He had a thin but scraggly beard, poorly groomed. His brown thinning hair stuck out in all directions.

  "I believe I asked you a question," he repeated.

  Paul gained his composure and attempted to provide an answer. "They've got parts of the city blocked off. I don't know why, but they do. My daughter and I are trying to get somewhere and I guess we wandered into a restricted zone."

  The man studied them suspiciously, then he looked to Julie. "Is he telling the truth?" the man asked, pointing at Paul.

  "That's what happened," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  "Always trust kids, they say. Kids don't lie. B
ut as soon as they can think for themselves, they realize that you can just make shit up, and then they ain’t so trustworthy," the man said with a laugh.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Julie said.

  "I want to thank you for helping us. Is there a way out of the building you can show us?" Paul asked.

  "Now wait just a minute, Paul, we're not through here," the man said, cutting him off.

  Paul felt a tad nervous. He didn't know if they were any safer in the building with the stranger or outside with the police.

  "You from the Denver area?" the man asked.

  "No, we're from," Paul said, pausing. "We're from out of state."

  "Well, if you're not from the area, you probably don't recognize me. Here, follow me," the man said, beckoning them down the hall.

  They were led into a large cluttered room acting as a recording studio. In the middle of the room was a table and chair; in the center of the table hung a professional microphone. Under the microphone was a perfectly square shaped electronic switchboard. A panel of glass split the room, where an intricate mixing board rested on the other side. Several old tube-televisions sat stacked along the wall, each one displaying color bars. Newspapers littered the ground, their headlines similar in apocalyptic language:

  Nuke Strikes U.S.!

  Worst Attack in History!

  The End of America!

  Millions Perish in Nuclear Holocaust!

  Paul was eager to read every paper in sight with the hope of gaining some insight through tangible reporting. The man sat on his chair, leaned back, and plopped his feet on the table. Next to him was a mobile reel-to-reel audio recording unit. He casually pressed the record button on the unit, sending the audio reels spinning in a clockwise fashion.

  "Welcome to the Arthur Williams Radio Show. I'm your host, Arthur Williams, and today we'll be talking about the current status of the once beautiful city of Denver and the current hellhole it is now. But before we get into the meat of everything, including the sudden availability of power after three weeks, I would like to introduce my two guests from out of town."