Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  Darren stopped for a moment, as if not wanting to read any more from his laptop screen. Then he sighed and went on. ‘The scenario got worse. Not enough smallpox vaccine could be produced in time. Canada and Mexico sealed their borders. So did some of the states. Governors declared martial law, the stock market collapsed, and there were food shortages in some of the larger cities. By the time the war game was completed, there were nearly a million deaths. A million.’

  The silence returned, and it was like no one in the team could bear to look at each other’s eyes. Brian rubbed at his face again and looked at Adrianna, who seemed to be thinking of something. A thought came to him and Brian said, ‘There was another scenario, wasn’t there?’

  ‘What?’ Adrianna asked.

  ‘Another scenario. This one involved smallpox. I’m sure there was one involving a nationwide anthrax attack. What was it like? What are we facing?’

  Now the mood in the room had changed, as Brian and the three others looked to Adrianna, as though waiting for her to confirm their worst fears. She coughed and said, ‘Yes, Brian. You’re right. There was an anthrax scenario held last winter. Similar to Dark Winter.’

  She stopped. Monty said, ‘Go on. Tell us more.’

  Adrianna rubbed her hands together for a moment. ‘Started off like Dark Winter. Simultaneous and multiple outbreaks of anthrax. Same challenges, same problems. Vaccine stock small, and what vaccine there was had to be administered in three doses over a period of a week. All the states’ borders sealed, economic collapse . . .’

  Another pause. It had to be said. Brian spoke up and said, ‘Worse than the smallpox scenario, wasn’t it?’

  Adrianna pursed her lips. ‘Much worse. Respiratory anthrax is a magnitude more contagious than smallpox. The scenario ... it didn’t end well.’

  Victor said nothing, as if he knew what was ahead of them. Darren looked around, like a high school student suddenly thrust into a jury for a murder trial, deciding a man’s fate. He said, ‘How did it end, then?’

  A slight shake of the head. ‘Major cities depopulated. Refugees spreading out into the suburbs and countryside. Vigilantes setting up roadblocks. Casualties in the millions. Effective collapse of all governing authority, from national levels to state levels, including military. UN peacekeepers sent in to administer what was left alive and functioning. Other UN members setting up relief mandates, seizing oil, grain and other resources.’

  Adrianna stopped for just a moment. ‘Dark Winter was the name for the smallpox scenario, because it imagined that as dire as it would be to suffer a smallpox attack, there was room for eventual recovery, that the country and its government and its people could survive.’

  She looked at each of them in turn. ‘The anthrax scenario had no such assurance. Hence its name.’

  The room was deathly quiet. ‘It was called Final Winter,’ she said.

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Aliyah Fulenz was sixteen years old and knew that she was lovely and educated and lucky. Yet with all these good things, she still felt a terrible guilt over keeping a secret from her papa and mama, especially now, with another war being waged in the air above her home in Baghdad.

  This was the second war she had lived through, but she’d been just a little girl during the first one. All she recalled from that war were the nights spent in the basement of their home, cuddled up with papa and mama, listening to the ghastly shriek of air-raid sirens and the far-off explosions from the enemy bombs and missiles. She had been too young to know who was fighting or why, and her most vivid memories were just the faces of papa and mama looking up with fear at the ceiling, like they were waiting for some warhead to burst through and kill them all. Even with the loud noises and the way her mama held her close and tight, she hadn’t been that scared. It had been like an adventure, an adventure like that of some princess she had read about in her picture books, and if mama and papa were there, how scared could she be?

  Plenty scared, she would learn later, plenty scared indeed.

  Now she was sixteen, and a war had come back, and she was older and wiser and oh, so much lovelier, and the fear that came each night with the wail of the sirens and the thudding noises of the bombs was now outweighed by guilt, for she had never kept secrets from her papa and mama, and the secret she had now was one that she wasn’t sure she could keep.

  For Aliyah was in love.

  His name was Hassan, and he was a nineteen-year-old militiaman who had volunteered as an air-raid warden for their neighborhood, and he was tall and dark and had brown eyes and a wide grin and a mustache that tickled her whenever he kissed her, for he had kissed her exactly twice, and she sometimes daydreamed, wondering what the third kiss would be like. And on this winter evening, mama had noticed her absent-mindedness, scolding her for not drying the supper dishes properly. Not complaining, like the good daughter she was, Aliyah had rewashed and redried each plate and fork and spoon, washing each item mechanically, trying to remember that firm touch of Hassan, the softness of his lips, and the way his sweetness stayed on her lips, minutes later after each kiss.

  She closed the cabinet doors, went out to the main room of their house, where papa and mama were resting, sitting on a couch, the television on but the sound off. On the screen a man in a western suit was sitting behind a desk, reading what passed for news these days. She ached for a moment, looking at her parents, knowing she was lucky indeed to have such a man and a woman to raise her. Papa was a doctor and worked in the Ministry of Health, in an office concerned with pediatrics, and he would bring home piles of papers and folders in an old, scuffed leather briefcase. Lately he had been grumbling and examining these papers, late into the night, trying to work with French and German pharmaceutical companies, trying to find some way of importing medicines for the city’s hospitals during the war.

  Mama taught French at Baghdad University and had promised Aliyah that this summer, once the war was finally -over, the two of them would fly to Paris and mama would be her own personal tour guide to that magnificent and civilized city. Paris! Aliyah had gotten books from her school library that showed the monuments and museums and the Eiffel Tower, and mama had laughed, gently brushing Aliyah’s hair one night, saying, ‘Paris is a beautiful city, my daughter, but remember this. Your own Baghdad was a center of culture and civilization, for the entire known world, when Paris was nothing more than mud and wattle huts, with peasants who still prayed to the gods of thunder and lightning. Never forget your heritage, Aliyha, never.’

  Now she looked at them both, sitting there, her father with the papers in his lap, mama knitting a pair of gloves for her father, who suffered so much in the cold of winter. Mama looked up at her. ‘Are the dishes now done properly, Aliyah?’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ she said, her chest tightening with the ache of what she was trying to do.

  ‘Very good,’ her mother said.

  Aliyah remained standing. Her mother returned to her knitting and looked up again. ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘I...I’m going for a walk. Is that all right?’

  Her father looked up. ‘Now? At dusk? It’s not safe!’

  ‘Only to the end of the block! Papa, I promise I will be careful!’

  He shook his head. ‘Suppose the bombing starts up? Eh? What then?’

  ‘When the sirens sound, I will run right home.’

  Her mother stopped her knitting. ‘No, you will not run home. You will run to the shelter, that’s where you will run.’

  Father grumbled and said, ‘I forbid it, wife. It’s too dangerous to go out. Just one bomb, one missile . . .’

  Mama smiled at Aliyah and reached up with a hand, gently rubbed father’s bald spot. ‘Not to worry. Our daughter needs to get some fresh air. That’s all. And I know she will promise to run to the shelter and meet us there, if the sirens sound. Am I right?’

  Aliyah nodded, though she hadn’t liked the shelter that had opened up in their neighborhood. It was crowded and dark and chi
ldren inside the shelter screamed and wept all night long, and she couldn’t sleep. She had much preferred to take shelter here in her own home, in their basement, but her father had forbidden that, and for once her mother had let him have his way. He insisted that the new shelter was strong - ‘built by the Finns and the Swedes, they know their engineering, and living next to the Russians for so long, they know how to build bomb shelters’ — and that was where they had gone, night after night during the past week, when the shelter had been opened up to the neighboring residents.

  ‘Yes, mama, you are right. When the sirens sound, I will run as quick as the wind, to the shelter. And I will find you there.’

  Father grumbled some more and went back to his papers. Mama smiled sweetly up at her daughter and the ache of guilt returned, that she had not told them about Hassan. But perhaps she would tell them tomorrow. Yes, perhaps tomorrow. She came over and kissed papa on the head and mama on her cheek, and mama said, ‘Wait, daughter, just for a moment.’

  Mama’s strong fingers went to Aliyah’s neck, pulling at a thin chain that hung there. Mama smiled widely as she pulled the chain free and the crucifix was exposed. She tugged again and Aliyah lowered herself, allowing her mother to kiss the form of Jesus upon the cross.

  ‘There. I feel better. God and His Son will protect you. Now. Go and have your fun, daughter. But if the sirens sound . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Aliyah called out, racing to the door. ‘I will run right to the shelter!’

  Then papa said something else, which she did not hear, and to which she paid little attention.

  There would always be another time.

  ~ * ~

  Out on the streets, a scarf about her head, Aliyah walked quickly down the block, sniffing in distaste at the smell of burning garbage. Ever since the war had come to Baghdad, the trash services had faltered and failed, and electricity was spotty some days and nights. But she and her family were lucky, at least, that the water was still running. There was a rumor that a cousin of Himself lived just two blocks away, and that there would be no way that he would allow the water to be stopped.

  She passed parked cars and there, up on the left and on the other side of the street, was a three-story apartment building with its windows blown out, the concrete scarred by shrapnel, the large extended family who had lived in there either dead or wounded. The newspapers had said that the place had been struck by an American bomb, by a terror pilot who only wanted to strike fear into the hearts of the Baghdad civilians, and Aliyah last week had asked papa if that was true, that it had been an American bomb. Papa had shaken his head and said, ‘Daughter, you see how much artillery and missiles our brave forces fire up into the sky, do you not? Have you forgotten that old rhyme, what goes up, must come down?’ And mama had shushed him and that had been that.

  Aliyah reached into her blouse, touched the comforting pendant of Jesus on the cross. She and her family were Christians, and mama and papa were proud that here, in Baghdad, still the most civilized city in the Arab world, they were allowed to worship freely. Not like the barbarians in Egypt, who murdered their Coptic Christians, or the desert barbarians in Saudi Arabia, who allowed no other religion into their kingdom. ‘We have many problems, Aliyah,’ her father had once said, ‘but being able to worship our own way is not one of them. Even Himself has a Christian as his foreign minister!’

  Which was true, though it concerned Aliyah not one bit. Some foreign minister, to allow such a war to go on...but she kept such thoughts to herself. The only thought she had right now was to ensure that Hassan was going to be where he’d said he would be.

  She approached the corner of the street, hesitated for a moment. She had told papa and mama that her walk would only take her to the end of the block. But it was such a cool, beautiful evening, and Hassan was only two more blocks away - what difference would it make? She hesitated again, thinking of papa and mama back home, and how easy it would be to turn around, walk back home, and stay in the living room with mama and papa, and perhaps mama would play some of her French music records, the women with such low and smooth voices, perhaps she should go back, back to where she belonged . . .

  But the streets ahead beckoned to her. Hassan and his smile and his long fingers and his lips waited for her. Just a short stroll, that’s all, she told herself. Just a short stroll.

  Aliyah walked across the street, looked back, wondering if she could see her home, but all she could make out were the low buildings of the other homes and the jagged concrete of the destroyed apartment building.

  ~ * ~

  The walk went fast, and up ahead there was a small pyramid of sandbags. Men in uniforms were standing around, talking and joking, automatic rifles slung across their young backs. Aliyah slowed her walk, not wanting to look too eager, but still, she was noticed. There was laughter from two of the men, who grabbed a taller man and thrust him forward. More laughter.

  She stopped in front of him, smiling widely. Hassan nodded, smiling as well.

  ‘Aliyah,’ he said.

  ‘Hassan.’

  He said in a louder voice, probably for the benefit of his comrades: ‘It’s not safe to come out at night, you know that.’

  ‘I know...but still, I had to go for a walk. It’s so nice and cool.’

  ‘So it is.’

  The other young men - boys, really - laughed. Hassan looked at them, smiling, and he took her hand - how strong his own hand felt - and they walked away from the pile of sandbags. They sat on a bench and watched the traffic go by, listened to the sounds of the birds, even in this part of the city, and talked about school and soccer and other gossip and, here and there, just brief comments about the war. Aliyah felt such love for Hassan, sitting there next to her in his green uniform, his assault rifle held lightly across his lap, a young boy ready to protect her and her family from the invaders. She thought about how she would tell papa and mama about Hassan, maybe tomorrow, and a thought came to her, a thought so exciting that she could feel something racing through her: Paris. Mama had said earlier that if the war was over soon enough and the sanctions were lifted, there would be enough money that when they went to Paris, she could take a friend, and mama hadn’t said whether the friend had to be a girl, and why not a boy like Hassan, from such a nice family and—

  Hassan grabbed her hand, hard, as a siren began to wail.

  Aliyah looked up, amazed at how dark the sky had gotten.

  Oh, mama, papa, she thought, I am in so much trouble. She got up, ready to run back to their neighborhood, to the shelter, and Hassan said, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘To the shelter. With my parents.’

  He held on to her arm as other sirens began to wail. ‘No, it’s too dangerous. You have to stay here.’

  ‘Hassan, no, I—’

  Hassan’s voice changed from that of a smiling young man, flirting with a beautiful young girl, to that of an armed militiaman, charged with a duty. ‘No! It’s too far! You’ll come here with us.’

  He started dragging her away as his two companions joined him. They went through a narrow alleyway, past a squealing cat, and down one set of concrete steps, then another. The sirens seemed louder, and then there were two loud thuds as the evening’s bombing began. A metal door was unlatched and lights were switched on. Another, longer flight of concrete steps led to a further metal door, which was open. Hassan led the way, followed by Aliyah and the two other men. Electric lights in the shelter flickered and glowed. There was a family there, father and mother and four children, bundled together, their eyes really wide, and Aliyah wondered if she had looked so scared and innocent during the last war.

  She sat next to Hassan on a metal bench and said, ‘My parents. They will be so cross with me, they told me to go to the shelter and—’

  Hassan interrupted her, his voice so brave. ‘Then I will take the blame. I will say that I was on patrol when the sirens sounded, that I brought you here to keep you safe. That is what I will do.’
/>
  Aliyah slipped her hand into Hassan’s and squeezed it tight, thinking that yes, this would work so beautifully. She would present Hassan to mama and papa as a hero, a man who bravely took her in and comforted her. Surely mama and papa would see what a wonderful young man he was!

  The lights flickered. More thudding. The children started whimpering.

  Hassan raised his voice. ‘It will be fine, just you wait and see. It will be fine. Our air defenses are the mightiest in the world. All will be fine.’

  Aliyah squeezed his hand again. There was another thud in the distance, and the lights went out.

  More whimpering from the children. It was so dark that she couldn’t see anything, nothing at all.

  But she could feel just fine, and in the darkness she felt the tentative touch of Hassan’s hand upon her face. She kissed his fingers and then his lips were upon her again, and in the darkness of the bomb shelter, despite the whimpering of the children and the thudding noises still coming in regular waves, she had never felt such pleasure, such joy, as Hassan kissed her, again and again, and then...his hand was upon her breast, gently squeezing, and her breathing quickened, as she felt a man’s hand upon her for the very first time, my God, how pleasurable and how wickedly naughty, to be touched and kissed and loved in darkness and—