Melani Schweder

as Corine Channell

72 HOURS TILL DOOMSDAY

1. March 6, 2017. 9:22 A.M. London, England

The central waterways office was filled with an ominous quiet that Monday morning. Every employee had yet to begin work; instead, they all leaned against the stained blue cubicle dividers, eyes glued to the television mounted on the wall, and although Gregor was a particularly diligent man, he couldn’t resist getting swept into the gathering.

You could almost smell the terror hanging in the stagnant air as the news reports ticked along the screen, like someone was reading off a prison sentence. Every word that emerged was a fang, all strung together into sharp and biting sentences, sinking deeper into the beating hearts of the men and women of the Battersea Water and Power.

“Gregor, hey.”

It was a familiar face, the deeply lined one belonging to his best friend Arthur. A steady hand landed on his shoulder with more weight than usual.

“Hey.”

“How are you holding up?”

“Oh, I’m okay. Did I tell you that Alice lost her job?” Arthur nodded, and Gregor continued. “Yeah, they closed the school on Friday. I’m just not sure what to make of all this, you know? I think everyone might just be overreacting.”

“I don’t know, G. In all my fifty-three years, I’ve never seen things this bad. Some may say it’s rubbish, but I’m starting to believe otherwise. Three more countries declared financial ruin just this morning.”

“What about us?”

“The minister keeps saying we’re fine, that the markets are just adjusting. But if you’ll notice, the BBC is only showing half the story.”

“Like those two banker suicides last week?”

“Right. They’re not talking about that. Or the riots over in Chelsea. Conveniently ignoring those.”

“Yah. I just hope this will all blow over.”

“Me too, G,” he let out a heavy sigh, “I just have a funny feeling that it won’t.”

Their eyes had glazed over, empty stares of men whose minds were too busy predicting the future to absorb the present. The screen was repeating the same cell phone video footage captured at the Hyde Park riots, the same frightened faces popping in and out of the frame, their yells like a skipping soundtrack.

“Okay, everybody, let’s get to work please,” came a brusque declaration from their manager.

Some people shuffled slowly to their cubicles, their feet stuck in an invisible syrup. The entire office had already been infected. It was too late. Every soul was too distracted to accomplish much that day; they were much too busy texting loved ones underneath their desks, rearranging their files trying to look busy, planning their escapes in one form or another.

Gregor hung his head, no different from the rest.

2. March 6, 2017. 3:38 P.M. Istanbul, Turkey

The meeting had gone much worse than planned. Three investors had pulled out, and one had been absent due to a hostage situation in Damascus. The imported beer and catered lunch had done nothing to ease the tensions in the men’s minds, their fists held tightly, their brows furrowed. The future of Altan’s company was not looking good, and every person in his office could feel it. It was like the expansive glass windows were clouding over, the leather sofas threatened to swallow them whole, and every bottle of fine filtered water contained a poison more deadly than they could imagine. This tenuous life of luxury was starting to feel like a prison.

“Eda, call my wife. Tell her I’m coming home early.”

“Yes sir.”

The sandstone facade of his home was glowing beautifully in the fading light, but he was far too preoccupied to enjoy it. The turquoise tiles threw tiny tinted reflections at him, some caught in the palm trees, some littered the walkway. His wife was a vision between the teak double doors, her white linen dress blowing in the breeze, her fingers playing nervously with the iron detailing. Little did he know, there weren’t many of these sunsets left.

“Altan!” she called, her bare feet gracing the stone patio. Two tiny figures broke out from behind her, bounding towards him.

“Baba! Baba!” they squealed as he scooped them into his arms.

He kissed the tops of their heads, inhaling the cinnamon from their ebony hair. He wanted to squeeze them tight, hold them safely forever, lost in their smells and sounds. The warm air plucked at their tunic sleeves, brushing their noses and eyes with sand.

“And how are my mischievous children today? Have you been bothering your mother? Fatma? Fahri?”

The twins shifted their eyes to the ground, the corners of their mouths smiling at one another.

“No!” they giggled in unison.

“Good, good. I would hate to lock you outside for the lions to eat tonight!”

“Baba! No lions!”

He stood, brushing the sand from his hair, and kissed his wife.

“Sule. My queen.”

“Come inside. Tell me what happened today.”

“I will. But first, I need my raki.”

“Baba! Let’s swim!” Insistent hands had taken hold of each of his, pulling him towards the door.

“Baba can’t swim today. He’s tired. You swim yourselves. Just be careful of the sharks!”

Sule laughed a delightful laugh, carried on the gentle wind. But she knew that something wasn’t right with her husband. She could feel the alarm rising from his skin, could smell it on his breath. They settled into their spacious den after sending the twins off to change into their swimsuits, their maid following in attendance. He poured himself a drink from their bar, mixing the milky white liquid with water. Lion’s milk, they called it, the milk for the strong. He definitely needed that strength today.

“Altan, tell me what’s wrong.” She tucked her feet underneath her, smoothing out her dress.

“Just something strange today. You remember the meeting I was supposed to have?”

“Yes. The one with foreign investors? You were going to make an oil trade agreement.”

“Yes. Except half of them pulled out of the deal. One of them didn’t even show up. Apparently he is being held hostage.”

“What?”

“In Damascus. Rebels have surrounded his home.”

“Oh.” Her slender hand rested on her mouth. “What can we do?”

“I’m afraid it’s too early to tell, Sule. The markets here are unstable, and soon the Americans will follow. I have a feeling we are in for some tough times ahead.”

“Yes, but we’ve survived those before. And look at us now.” She waved around the expansive room, the heirloom rugs and gilded mirrors hushed in her presence.

“Yes I know. We’ve had many successes,” he took a sip from his sweating glass, “but honestly, I have a bad feeling about this time. There are tanks in the square, and I passed several combat vehicles on the way home. People are getting frightened.”

“Should I be frightened too?”

“Not yet my love. Not yet. Let’s see what this week will bring.”

She gave him a wan smile and rose from the sofa. She held out her manicured hand.

“Let’s go out and join the children. At least enjoy the night.”

“Very well.”

They walked out towards the back patio, a mosaic tile terrace surrounded by lush palm trees, just as the hanging lanterns began switching on. The swimming pool was shimmering turquoise and amber, ripples of water emanating from the two rambunctious kids playing. Their attendant, a young woman in a blue headscarf, sat quietly on the edge of a padded lounge chair, her eyes fixed on them, constantly assessing their safety. She nodded when Altan and Sule made their appearance and settled into lounge chairs of their own.

As the sun gently dipped under the horizon and the sky faded to black, they could see a smattering of orange flames dance in the distance. The soft rumblings that followed, slow and deep like thunder, told them what was coming. Coming straight for them.

3. March 6, 2017. 8:22 A.M. Oxnard, California

He always prayed to her on days like these, when the Western winds blew, the sun beat hard down upon their backs, their fingers gnarled from the picking; days when his back groaned, each muscle shouting at him, begging for rest, to lay on something soft and cool. When he could feel the ache deep in his bones, and hear the sighs of his children echo from the row over. Yes. Our Lady was there, listening to their prayers. Our Lady was always there.

A woman’s voice rose, low and mournful, above the dirt. Her song floated through the field, too early to be beaten down by the day, her hope too fresh to be dried up under the California sun. There were only twenty of them in the field that morning—many of their fellow migrants had fled, seeking more stable work. The agitated chatter of the foremen must have scared them off, their worried faces, with their tightly joined and hushed conversations.

Matias knew there was something brewing, but he couldn’t afford to move his family again. His wife was sick, couldn’t pick the berries anymore. His two children had left school to help with their income, but it was just barely enough. They’d sold their extra truck to another man, planted their own modest garden, and bartered with their neighbors for corn and flour, but despite all of this, they were happy.

He knew that when his boots scuffed across those planks of wood and crossed into their tiny stucco house, there would be warm tortillas waiting for him in soft and fragrant stacks. Teresa said even though she was ill, the least she could do was cook for her hard-working family. Sometimes there were even clean jeans on the clothesline, the grass and strawberry stains only somewhat visible from the road.

Their daughters, Maria Elena and Gabriela, would always sing after supper, washing their chipped plates and sweeping the dirt from the living area. Then, as the light was washed from the sky, they would kneel on the plywood floor in front of their altar, light a candle, and offer their prayers and thanks. Our Lady would always smile down upon them, her hand held out in benevolent love.

That afternoon, just after finishing a Coke in the shade of the distribution truck, the air was punctured by the sounds of rapid gunfire. A girl screamed. The ones in the field dropped onto their bellies, the ones on the roads crouched and turned their heads, seeking loved ones. Violence wasn’t uncommon around those parts, but it was unusual in the middle of a working day way out in the farms. The two white foremen looked more worried than usual, hopping side by side into a big Ford truck, barreling down the gravel roads towards a neighboring farm. As they disappeared, Matias waved for his girls.

“Esta bien. It’s okay. Shh shh.” He held them tightly, like he’d done when they were young.

“Papa, that was close by here,” Gabriela said.

“Si. But we are safe. Let’s get back to work.”

“But the foremen are gone. Nobody’s here to see if we don’t.” She fingered a hole in her t-shirt.

“Maria Elena! What kind of woman are you becoming? Lazy? Eh?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but then thought the better of it. She always had a lecture waiting from her mother if she ever talked back. She couldn’t face another one of those right now.

“Right. We work!”

They allowed their father to lead them back among the strawberries, adding a fresh layer of stain to their fingers as the day progressed. The heat was oppressive, fueled by the unforgiving breeze, and they all took turns rewetting the bandanas on their necks, desperate for relief. So as the sun began settling down, a chorus of sighs filled the air. Lungs were filled. Backs were stretched. Matias caught glimpse of three men running towards them, could see the sweat shining on their brown faces, and watched as they stopped at the edge of the field, gesticulating wildly to the man working near there. Mere seconds later, the field was ablaze with voices, some shouting, some crying, some praying.

“They’ve been shot! They’ve been shot!”

“They’re after us next!”

“Run while you can!”

The news traveled quickly. That afternoon’s gunfire had signaled the deaths of many of their brethren, just a mile down the gravel road. The neighboring farm had become a field of blood after the bosses had pointed their weapons out among the workers, unloaded bullets into the men and women that toiled for them, desperate for control in their out of control world. The only piece of solace came in knowing they’d turned the guns on themselves in the end. They didn’t want to face what was coming. What everyone was whispering about.

4. March 7, 2017. 5:29 P.M. London, England

The walk from the bus station to his quiet suburban neighborhood seemed longer than usual that day, the houses standing stagnant, their chimneys grazing the low grey clouds. Even the flower bulbs seemed hesitant to peek their faces out, maybe they knew something that Gregor didn’t.

Alice was standing in the kitchen, her hands busy scrubbing a biscuit tin. The scene was homey and comforting; the dappled light reaching through the curtains, the scent of blueberry and sugar sweeping into his nostrils, the figure of his wife in her new sneakers. Even the floorboard that squeaked didn’t rile him like it usually did. He was just happy to be home.

“Hello Muffin.”

She turned, drying her hands with a tea towel. A half smile.

“Hello Luv. How was your day?”

“Hmm. Interesting I suppose. I don’t think a one of us got a single thing done. It’s these blasted news reports. Got everyone squirrely.”

“Huh. Well, at least they’re not about to shut you down. Right? Public utilities always come through in a time of crisis.”

“Sure. I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s just something strange in the air.”

“There certainly is. When I went to the market today, nearly all the shelves were empty. Like they’d been looted. I only managed a bag of flour and a couple cans of soup before the whole thing just gave me the creepers. You should have seen it.”

“That’s odd.”

“I know. Oh, and we’ve gotten another notice on our mortgage. We’ve been late too many times now.”

Gregor settled into his favorite chair at the kitchen table, reaching to pluck a warm blueberry scone from the heap. He sighed, glancing around the room.

“I just don’t know what to say. You were the one who wanted to move up here to the ‘burbs. I said we can’t afford to, and that was even before…”

“Before what?”

“Before you lost your job. I mean, we have some left in savings. We can pull it out if you’d like. But then we wouldn’t be able to take our vacation to Spain this summer.”

Alice made a face, dropped the towel back onto its rung. She would never admit it, but she’d been unhappier than ever since moving here. Sure, the house was bigger and all the faucets worked, but it was straining not just their bank accounts but her sanity as well, especially now that she didn’t have the school to escape to. It was like all her strings were being pulled tighter and tighter, so taut they hummed, seconds from breaking.

He could feel her unease. It had become more palpable lately, leaking from her pores like vapor. He swallowed the last of his snack.

“Maybe... Maybe we should move back. Don’t give me that look. I know it was a lot smaller, but we could afford it. And it was close to the kids.”

“But we’ve worked hard for this, Greg. Aren’t we old enough now that we deserve a few luxuries?”

He felt the guilt prick his cheeks. A man that can’t provide nice things for his wife. His father would be ashamed.

“Of course, Muffin. It was just an idea.”

He reached for another scone, desperate to change the subject.

“Have you heard from Nigel lately? Or Sarah?”

“No. I think they’re both cross. Since we’ve moved away, I mean. I tried to reassure them that their kids wouldn’t grow up without their grandparents. I mean, Shoreditch isn’t that far from Battersea after all.”

“And yet, we’ve yet to make the trip, either.”

They both looked at each other, a weariness showing through their thin aging skin, and then stared at the floor for a moment.

“I’ve just been so busy.”

“I know, Luv.”

Their silence hung there for a moment. Alice turned to switch on the kettle, pulling two mugs down from the cupboard.

“Tea?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The couple spent their Monday evening stuffed into their respective chairs, eyes glued to the set. They absorbed the nightly news, images burning into their brains of plummeting stocks, home invasions, new pockets of protest activity. They’d never admit it to each other, but they were getting scared. The Brixton riots were growing violent and moving North. Rumors were that their neighbor across the way was packing up his family and running away to the country. Several London bus routes had already been shut down due to terrorist threats.

Alice gasped, her half finished knitting dropped into her lap.

“They’ve taken over the old power station!”

Gregor watched the report, those twin stacks recognizable from anywhere, the station lot now littered with tents and young angry people swarming between them, shouting.

“I thought they’d renovated it into fancy apartments?”

“The project was stopped a couple of years ago. Ran out of money. Now it just stands there half-finished.”

“That’s just up the road from us.”

“And even closer to your work. Oh Greg, don’t go in tomorrow. Call in sick. It isn’t worth it.”

“Muffin, we need the money. I have to keep my job. Especially during all of this.”

She was biting at her nails now, her graying temples showing under the blue glow of the television.

“But it’s too dangerous. I’ll be worried sick about you all day.”

“Sorry. They need me there. Shift managers are relied on in times like these.”

She sat there, still and silent, eyes brimming with fearful tears. There was nothing she could do to change his mind. She could only pray and hope for the best.

As they lay in their spacious bed that night, Gregor couldn’t shake gloomy feelings from his head. He pulled the covers up around his neck, listening intently, worried for his home, his neighborhood. Every sound shook him from his shallow slumber, his muscles tensing to face a threat. He reminded himself to pick up a pistol tomorrow. He had an ugly feeling that he might need one.

5. March 7, 2017. 7:18 A.M. Istanbul, Turkey

Altan awoke with a start, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. The sheets were sticking to his chest like cellophane, trapping him, making it hard to breathe. He’d had a horrible dream in which he was attacked by vultures. They had pecked out his eyes, leaving him bleeding in the dusty streets, begging for someone to show him mercy. He could smell the foods from the stalls, the bells and squeals and running feet slammed into his ears. He wandered for days and days until he reached the desert, dying of thirst, visions of his wife and children tortured him. They sat by the pool drinking mint tea, laughing at something funny. Laughing at him. He lay down in the sand, begging for death but it never came. It felt so real that the beeping alarm clock sounded like the vulture’s cry. He’d shot up in bed, ready to fight them off.

“Altan? You alright?”

Sule was stirring, her words mumbled against her pillow. He couldn’t shake the image of her laughing at him, blood staining the front of his tunic.

“I’m okay. Go back to sleep.”

He peeled off the sheets and stepped into their adjacent master bathroom. He met his own gaze in the mirror, searching for a fragment, a semblance of the young and happy man he used to be. He looked too old. Too hardened. This business had sucked the life from him so that even his marrows were dry. Like sand. He felt heavy, shapeless. He had tried to leave once before, become a carpenter instead of an oil baron, but his father had still been alive at the time and forbade it. Coming from an upstanding Turkish household, there were expectations he had to meet, a presence he had to maintain, and an image he had to craft and protect. These were his burdens.

Both he and his Mercedes were grateful for the short commute, as the roadblocks were reproducing at an alarming rate. Soon, half the streets would be shut down and the city would become strangled, its people clamoring to escape as the bombings grew closer. The horizon was already littered with trails of dirty smoke, rising up to the heavens like warning flags. He was unsuccessfully trying to ignore the growing stone settling in his stomach.

The parking lot at the high-rise was more packed than usual, and the raucous scene in the lobby was soon forgotten as he rode up to the hush of the 38th floor. Here it was quiet. But not a peaceful quiet, more of a fearful quiet. Like when you’re being hunted and mustn’t breathe lest you give yourself away.

Eda was at her desk, picking nervously at a file folder. Her makeup was not at its usual impeccable level, and a stray strand of hair had come loose from her bun.

“Eda. What is going on? Where is everyone?”

“Ah, Mr. Batur! I didn’t see you there.” She lowered her voice. “There is a meeting in conference room A, sir. You should go.”

“Yes, thank you Eda.”

He was glad he’d elected to wear a suit today and left his usual whites at home. He knocked before he entered the room, a gathering of dark faces, sweat seeping out from under their collars, swiveled to see him.

“Altan. Come in. Shut the door.”

“Thank you, Kemal. What is this?”

A deep voice erupted from across the table. “We were discussing our prospects, Mr. Batur.” The company lawyer. Well, one of them. “Our options are not looking good.”

There was a smattering of official looking papers, looking like they’d been thrown onto the glass table.

“What do you mean?”

Another man piped up, running his clammy fingers up and down his silk tie as he spoke.

“Our stocks are down thirty three points. Investors are pulling out, saying it’s too risky.”

“But we sell oil. We know what kind of profits war and unrest can bring,” another said.

“Yes, but not when the unrest is at home. There were bombings last night in Maltepe. The Greek markets have already fallen. We’ve all seen the tanks. The roads are closing. The rebels are rising. Nobody wants to invest now. Not here.”

“Our oil field in Camurlu has been captured by the Syrians. Just this morning, before dawn. Eight of our men are dead.”

“What about the fields in Diyarbakir and Garzan?’ he asked.

“Safe for now.”

He looked around the table and noticed the circle of lined faces was missing a very important player.

“Where is Mehmet?” His only friend.

“We haven’t seen him yet. His secretary has been trying his phone.”

“It’s still early, Altan. He will show up.”

He couldn’t help but feel unsettled by this news. Mehmet, their chief of financial development, was never late to the office. His Rolls Royce was always one of the first to arrive in the mornings, his door always the first one opened on their floor. It was so unlike him to miss something like this.

The meeting droned on, curiously uninterrupted by any of their fleet of secretaries and attendants. They decided to break for a late lunch just after deciding to ask for American intervention and made a promise to increase security at their remaining oil fields. It was not a happy time, and everyone could feel it.

Altan ducked into his office and rested his head in his hands, but was startled by the constant buzzing in his left pocket. His phone showed a total of thirteen missed calls; six of them were from his wife. Suddenly his throat felt very tight and the worry bubbled to the surface.

“Sule? Sule? What’s wrong?”

She answered on the first ring.

“Altan. Where were you? I was so worried.”

“I was just in a meeting. I’m okay. What’s going on? Is it the kids?”

She sighed into the receiver. “No, it was just the strangest thing. I was out walking to the market and passed the old woman on the corner. You know the one by the teashop? She jumped out in front of me and started yelling. She was saying the most awful things, Altan. She said the sins of the father would be paid when the stones bled. People were staring at me. I was so frightened. I’m sorry. I just had to call you. It was so strange. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“The sins of the father would be paid when the stones bled?”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t say anything about vultures?”

“No. What? Why?”

“No reason. Did she say anything else?”

“I don’t know. I ran, Altan. I couldn’t bear for her to yell at me, pointing her finger in my face.”

“It’s okay, Sule. You are safe. She was probably just spouting nonsense. You know she likes to drink.”

“Perhaps.” She didn’t sound convinced. He could hear that she was shaking through the phone.

“I’ll be home soon. Just try to calm down.”

“Altan. That isn’t all. I just got a call. Mehmet is dead.”

6. March 7, 2017. 5:59 A.M. Oxnard, California

Something was on fire. The smoke was rushing into his nose, weaving into his hair. It was the sharp smell of danger that roused Matias. He looked around the room, using his flashlight in the murky dawn, its golden circle tracing a path from corner to corner. He pulled on the jeans that were on the floor and headed towards the door. His palm determined the fire wasn’t on the other side and he pushed it open with a long squawk. The rest of the house was quiet, still in slumber, and yet the smell of smoke persisted. It was strongest in the kitchen. He rushed through, placing his browned hands on every surface he could find, seeking the heat source. And then he looked up. Out the kitchen window. Then bolted out the back door, bare feet scraping on the rocks, the heavy warm air pelting his bare chest.

The fields were burning.

Flames licked the air with their dancing orange tongues, and the thick gray smoke choked the sky. Acres and acres of their lives were being consumed right before his eyes. He ran as close to the field as his lungs could stand, finally coming to rest on the southwest corner, safely out of the path of the smoldering cloud. There were a handful of other men standing there, watching it burn, defeat etched into their faces. He snagged the gaze of one.

“Carlos. Eh? What’s going on?”

“Matias.” His friend put his sturdy hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know man. This isn’t good.”

“Not with what happened yesterday, no.”

“Si.”

“You don’t know who set the fire?”

“No. Who would do this?”

“Everything. Just gone.”

“I’m going to have to move my family. Again. And we have another one on the way.”

“Lo siento Carlos. I’m sorry.”

“What about you? How is Teresa?”

“She’s a little better these days. I don’t know. We might just stay. See what happens.”

“Well, just stay safe, okay Matias?”

“Si. Of course. Hey, have you seen the foremen?”

“No. Nowhere to be found. I thought I heard their trucks earlier, but maybe I was just crazy. There’s no work anyway.”

“Right. It’s just strange.”

“I guess I should go. Pack up the truck.”

“Good luck to you and your family, Carlos. Come back and find me some day.”

“Ah,” he let out a soft sorrowful sigh, “I will, man. I will.”

The men shared a hug there on the edge of the burning field. Matias knew he might never see his friend again, and watched him walk away, brushing the wet grit from his eyes as he turned. When he walked back into his house, the girls were standing by the truck with their arms crossed over their thin t-shirts.

“Papa?” It was always the youngest, Maria Elena who sought his comfort.

“It’s okay, Maria. Go back inside.”

“But what happened? Who started the fire?”

“We don’t know yet, girls. Go wake up your mother.”

“Are we moving again?”

“No. Now go inside.”

They shuffled in their plastic sandals back towards the door. Matias leaned against the truck for a moment and watched the sky. Nobody was coming to put out the fire. They were just going to let it burn. Scorch the earth down to the dust. The first rays of the sun popped up over the hills, flooding the valley with an eerie greenish glow. Smoke always did that: ruined perfectly good sunlight and filled him with an odd sense of foreboding. Like the sky was coming down to earth, lower and lower, close enough to touch, to taste, until finally it smothered you.

Several other migrants had come out of their houses, walking in a daze, shouting things at each other in Spanish. Women crowded the doorways and children cried. Clothes were shoved into plastic bags and chucked into pickup beds. Refrigerators were emptied, pictures were taken down from the walls, rosaries already clutched between dirty fingers, ready for another journey. By the time the sun was high, eight families had already left. Teresa begged to join them.

“Please mi cielo, stop. We are staying.”

“But there is nothing left for us here! No money!”

“We will be okay. You have to stay. You need your medicine. And the doctor is here.”

“No, Matias! Let’s go like everyone else. They’re the smart ones. What if the bosses come for us next? What if they shoot us?”

“Teresa, por favor. We are not going anywhere. Nobody is going to shoot us.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Put your stuff back. We are staying. The girls can go back to school tomorrow until we can find another job.”

“What? No. Please Papa! Not school.”

“Yes Gabriela. You go back to school. I want a better life for my girls than this.”

She stomped three paces into the room she shared with her sister, slamming the door once she squeezed inside. Teresa sighed a heavy sigh, pressing her fingers into the bridge of her nose.

“Matias. I don’t feel good.”

“Sit.” He gathered her elbow and led her to their armchair, covered her with a wool blanket. “We will figure this out.”

“Si.” And she shut her eyes.

He felt useless away from the fields, his hands itching for something to do. He fiddled with the truck for most of the afternoon, covering his mouth with a wet handkerchief to keep out the smoke, tucking in a fresh spot of tobacco underneath. He walked to the corner of the farm twice more just to watch the fire, mesmerized by its sheer size and power. He spit in the dust, burying it with the toe of his boot.

By the end of the day the fire had burned itself out, leaving vast acres of ash and smoldering spots as far as Matias could see. There was not a single berry to be picked. And that night as he lay atop the smoke-tinged sheets, he heard the last of his neighbors drive away.

7. March 8, 2017. 12:44 P.M. London, England

Gregor looked up from his desk, craning to see outside the double glass doors. He was sure he’d heard something. Supplying power to South London wasn’t necessarily a hard job, but one didn’t really appreciate its importance until a time of national crisis. Their phones were ringing nonstop, a cacophony of shrill clanging noises, mostly government officials or concerned citizens. They’d finally had to turn off the television set earlier that morning because everyone was too distracted by what appeared to be an impending doomsday. A quarter of their staff had refused to show up, only adding to the atmosphere of stress and panic. But nothing could have prepared them for that afternoon. Prepared them to face what was approaching those double glass doors.

At first, he’d thought that perhaps someone had forgotten to turn off a radio set, so he prowled around the office for the offending appliance. But as he did, the sound proceeded to get louder, an arresting mix of thumping, metallic clanking of some kind, and human-sounding vocalizations. It stuffed into his ear canals like cotton, drowning out everything else, driving him mad. Then as he was about to sit back down in his chair, the static crackle of a security two-way:

“Dispatch. This is Battersea Water and Power. We are being approached by a riot mob. Weapons are visible. Proceeding to security lockdown. Requesting backup.”

It was Charlie. Perched at his station between the doors. A few neighboring heads popped up above the partitions, their eyes frantic with unanswered questions. They all heard the heavy locks clunk down in place in the atrium. The inner set of doors whooshed open. There was a tinge of pink panic in the face that appeared.

“Everyone listen up. We’ve got visitors. Let’s run through terrorist security lockdown. Managers find your teams. This isn’t a drill this time, people. Let’s go.”

Margie at the reception desk made an audible squeak before diving behind her desk, grabbing her purse, and darting out to join the rest of them. Gregor was only responsible for five others, but it was difficult to round them up with everyone craning for a view of the approaching mob.

“Blue team, come on! Get away from the windows! Owen, Libby, let’s go! Now!”

Finally, their group of six was gathered. He led them down the long corridor towards the generator room where there were cages in which to hide, and plenty of noise to cover their tracks, not to mention sharp and heavy objects to protect themselves with.

He hoped it didn’t have to come to that. As he swung open the cold metal door, the whirr of the generators overwhelmed him. It was like being inside a hive of angry bees. The buzzing vibrated down into their very bones. He directed his team, now clamped silent with fear, to follow the right hand wall to the cages in the darkened back corner. He still had to secure the doors. He knew better than to trust the automatic locks; even as he heard them click into place, a red flashing light above bearing witness to their supposed safety. Gregor picked up a heavy chain and wound it through the handles, grabbing a small shaft of pipe to act as a padlock. It would at least buy them some time.

“Turn your phones on silent. Don’t give us away,” he said, pulling the grate closed behind him.

The others fumbled in their pockets and purses, pressing buttons with shaking fingers. He pulled out his own set, dialed Anna’s number, dying to check in with the other teams. With every ring that passed, his heart dumped lower and lower in his chest. Finally she answered.

“Greg, that you?” He let out a relieved exhale.

“Yep. You guys okay?”

“Yeah. We’re in the control room under the desks.”

“Can you hear anything? It’s too loud down here.”

“I only know they’re inside. They shot through the doors just before we got down the hall. Oh, Greg, what do they want? Why are they here?”

“I don’t know Anna. Taking control of the power supply is a pretty big task, but if they can do it, then all of South London is in serious trouble. That must be their angle.”

“Shit. Well, we grabbed the hard drives from all the computers before we got out. Hopefully that stalls them.”

“Good thinking. Hey, did you contact the green team yet?”

“No, let me pull Liam up on the line with us.”

“Hello?” A shaky whisper.

“Hello, Liam? It’s Anna.”

“Anna. Hi. You okay?”

“Yes. Did you get your team out yet?”

“We’re close. We managed to put in all the required calls, and we were halfway down the west hall when shots were fired. We’re hiding in the storage closet. There’s only three of us.”

“Did you see if anyone was hurt?” Gregor asked, “Charlie? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know, man. I didn’t see anything, just heard the gun go off. It was loud, lots of people were shouting.”

“Christ. What can you hear now?”

“It sounds like they’re combing the cubicles. There’s at least ten of them, probably more. Two or three guys that sound like they’re in charge. They noticed the hard drives were missing. Whose idea was that?”

“Mine,” affirmed Anna.

“Smart. Pissed ‘em off. But smart.”

“Are you going to be able to make it to the exit?”

“Don’t know. Let’s see.”

The phone went quiet for a moment; only the sound of his breathing came through. He was opening the storage room door.

“I don’t see anyone. Oh, wait. Yep. There’s two near the front,” he whispered, “but everyone else is gone. They’re probably heading your way, Greg. It’s the biggest hallway.”

He felt the fear grip his throat. “We’re ready.”

“I think we’re going to try for the back doors while we have the chance. I’m going to leave my phone on, but putting it in my pocket. Okay?”

“Good luck, Liam.”

“Be safe, everyone.”

Then everything muffled over, like they’d been dropped into a tank of water. They could hear whispers, shuffling, the sounds of rustling and fabrics and the squeak of a rubber sole, then a loud rhythmic rushing sound. He must be running.

Suddenly, there was a metallic clunk; they’d reached the door. Then came the sounds of air, gravel being thrown aside as they moved, sirens from far away. Gregor had to remind himself to breathe he was so engrossed in listening. There were more rushing noises and two indiscernible shouts. Then a loud scratching noise.

“Guys? You there?”

“Yes!” Anna and Gregor breathed in unison.

“We’ve just made it out, but it was close. I think someone saw us. We’re going to keep running. I’m getting another call. Gotta go.”

“Wait!”

The other line went dead. Anna sighed.

“Greg, keep me on the line, okay?”

“Yes. But I’m going to put you in my pocket too. We’ve got to round up some pipes or something.”

“Okay.”

“Hey.”

“What?”

“It’ll all be over soon, Anna.”

“Yeah.”

Gregor slid his mobile into his front khaki pocket and turned to face his companions.

“Okay. They might be heading our way. I’m going to go out and look for anything we can arm ourselves with. Arthur, you come with me. You four stay here. Owen, if they come through those doors,” he pointed, “lock this gate. Keep yourselves safe. Got it?”

“You’re barking mad if you think I’d just leave you two out there.”

“Owen. Come on. It’s protocol.”

“Well, fuck protocol.”

“Jesus. Fine. Just stay here for now.”

The two men slid the rolling cage door just wide enough to squeeze through, flicking on their phone flashlights to illuminate the concrete floor. He knew there was a tool bag somewhere over towards the wall, feeling his way along the scratchy bricks. Finally his toe slammed against something.

“Arthur! Hey!” he whispered, picking up the heavy bag. “Take this. Go back to the cage. Give everyone a wrench or something.”

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“I think I saw a pipe up ahead. I’m gonna grab it and come back to meet you. Go on.”

The younger man heaved the bag and turned to jog as best as he could back to the rest of their team. Gregor was alone. He heard the rattling of the cage door. But wait, that was coming from the wrong direction. The cage was back to his left. He spun around, using his hands on the wall to guide the way until he spotted that flashing red light. The noise was coming from just below it—the double doors. Someone was trying to get in.

8. March 8, 2017. 6:29 P.M. Istanbul, Turkey

Altan and Sule stopped to take a collective breath before approaching their friends’ home. The estate was expansive, with whitewashed walls broken in spots by tall iron gates, twin pairs of palms lining the driveway and walkways, and three jeweled water fountains. There was no amount of riches, though, that could overpower the dense feeling of sorrow that hung in the air. In their arms lay a feast that Sule had immediately started on the moment she’d hung up with her husband earlier that day. Spiced lamb meatballs, cucumber-mint yogurt, hot pita bread, and baklava all lent their scents to the evening breeze. It was the least they could do, when there was nothing else to be done.

The beautiful matriarch opened the front door, draped in black, her eye kohl obviously having been recently touched up. It barely concealed the redness there. Three children hung from her clothes, their faces blank with confusion.

“Lale. Let us come in. We’ve brought you some food.” They bowed slightly, revealing their gifts.

“Oh Sule. Thank you.” Her voice crackled in her throat.

Their footsteps echoed in the roomy entryway, their shoes clicked against the tile. Slowly they were relieved of their baskets as the children deposited them in the kitchen down the hall. Altan bent to kiss the cheek of his best friend’s wife, but it wasn’t until Sule wrapped her in a hug that she resumed her crying.

“Shh, shh. It’s okay, Lale. Come sit.”

They parked themselves on the two silk settees, trying to comfort the new widow.

“Tell us what happened.”

She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with a white handkerchief.

“It was the bridge. Otoyol 1. Collapsed today. Mehmet was there.”

Altan knew where it was. He’d crossed the bridge many times on his way East to inspect the fields.

“It just collapsed?” asked Sule.

“No, no, no. Bombs!” she wailed into her hand.

It was as he’d predicted after seeing the report on the news. They had refused to place blame on any one group, saying that the bridge simply collapsed early that morning, but he knew differently. It was the rebels, and it meant that they were getting closer to the heart of Istanbul.

“I thought so, Lale. I’m so sorry.” He grasped her free hand, holding it firmly in his own.

“Mehmet! My Mehmet! Why? Now I am all alone!”

“You still have us,” Sule nudged her gently, “We can help. Cook you food. Watch the kids.”

“Thank you for this,” she blotted her eyes again, “since I will have to fire our staff now. No money for these things anymore.”

“Will there be a service?” Altan was trying to find a gentle way to ask.

“We might have something here at the house, but they haven’t pulled all the bodies out yet.”

She confirmed his suspicion. It was impossible to follow traditional rituals if the body hasn’t been recovered. The possibility must have been weighing heavily on Lale, adding stones to her pile of grief. It would be a terrible omen if Mehmet’s remains were never found.

“You will let us know? Let us help.”

“Of course.” Her tears had ceased once again. “Thank you for the food.”

“You’re welcome. I know cooking is the last thing on your mind right now.”

The oldest child, a girl of thirteen, burst into the sitting area.

“Anne, the computer isn’t working again!”

“Like last time?” There was a hint of fear in her mother’s voice.

“Yes! Come see.”

All three of them rose to follow the girl into the den. Sure enough, the computer screen was blue, a warning in Turkish flashing repeatedly in yellow. It wasn’t unusual for the government to restrict the internet access of the citizens, but this was something more. Perhaps the work of hackers or an organized media shutdown. Altan whipped out his mobile phone, eyed an apology to his wife. He had to check something.

“Sule.”

“What is it, Altan?”

“We need to go.”

9. March 8, 2017. 11:40 A.M. Oxnard, California

The sky was clearer that day, the smoke having moved on, having broken its body into a million tiny pieces, floating up towards the sun. But the road had a fresh ashy layer, as did the roofs of all the abandoned houses. The truck bed and trash bins were coated with a fine grey chalk, and everything reeked of fire, of death.

It was eerily quiet now that their neighbors were gone and the girls were at school. Matias had spent three hours waiting at the day-labor pick up site, hoping for even the smallest menial job. But nobody came. It was like either the bosses and contractors had left town or they were drinking the poisonous fear of a labor uprising. He wasn’t interested in an uprising. He just wanted work.

Defeated, he had turned back for home, but stopped at the church on the corner, the one with the cracking adobe and weathered crosses, the one whose wooden benches creaked under the weight of a hundred migrants every week. He walked to the front altar and lit a candle, kneeling on the pad to pray to Our Lady. He looked up at her face; a beacon of calm and peace surrounded by a golden halo, and clasped his hands together. He knew She was listening. She was always listening.

Teresa was still asleep on the chair with the blanket around her shoulders when he got home. Their old Chihuahua, Junior, was nestled in the crook of her arm, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He bent to kiss her forehead, then busied himself with ridding their tiny home of the smoke and ash, trying his best to not make noise. The broom quietly scratched its way across the floor, followed by the mop and then by the wiping of the cabinets and shaking out of the linens. He opened the windows, allowing the toxic air to be replaced by fresh that rode in on the warm afternoon breeze. When at last he was satisfied, Matias pulled on his boots and walked down the road to the field.

It was as desolate as one could imagine, a giant grooved rectangle of blackened dirt. He bent to scoop up a handful and the tiny granules sifted easily through his fingers. Among the rows he could see the skeleton of the irrigation system, tiny patches of darkened dirt lying beneath the joints. He touched the pipe and brought a wet, cool finger to his lips. There was obviously still water running through the field, but who had left it on? Or had someone turned it on recently? He hadn’t seen anyone around all day, except the odd onlooker, and he was convinced that the bosses had left for good. This was unfortunate, as they were decent men to work for, or at least weren’t miserable to work for. He knew they owned another farm on the other side of town. Maybe he’d check there later today.

His melancholy reverie was interrupted by a loud cracking noise behind him, almost like gunfire. He crouched out of habit and spun around. He started running back towards the house, his stomach in knots. Teresa was at home by herself. What if she was right? They had come for them next? As he rounded the neighbor’s house, he glimpsed a gold Cadillac, its rims still gleaming despite the dust. There were two men stalking around the outside of his house, peering in windows, wearing white wifebeaters and jeans that sagged, blue boxers clearly visible. Sunlight bounced off the chains on their necks, occasionally catching in his eye and blinding him. Suddenly the taller one turned and spotted him and started walking towards him with huge angry strides. He pulled a handgun out from behind his back and stuck it in Matias’s face.

“Hey! Hey! What you think you’re doing motherfucker? Huh?”

He waved the pistol around wildly, twisting it sideways.

“Whoa whoa. This is my house.” He nodded towards the door.

“Your house eh?”

“Si. Mi casa. Can I help you boys with something?”

The man holding the gun looked to be maybe nineteen, twenty at most. His neck and forearms were covered in tattoos, but it was the smattering of smaller ink on his face that made him look menacing. Three teardrops on the left cheek, a tiny cross on the right. Matias knew what those symbols meant. The other, shorter man had come over to join his partner, showing a similar array of body decoration, but held his gun down at his side. He had a blue bandanna wrapped around his shaved head, glistening with sweat. They both seemed a little unprepared to run into anyone and their bodies were fierce with defensive posturing.

“Help with something man? Yeah. Get the fuck outta our way.”

His companion laughed and tugged at his baggy pants, swiped his nose with his left thumb.

“Listen. I don’t know what you boys want, but I’ve got nothing. Nada.” The older man held up his hands in mock surrender. “It’s just me and my wife here. Everyone else left.”

“Aw, your wife bro?” He looked over his shoulder at the little plaster house and his face broke into a wicked sideways smile. “Let’s see. Come on. I’m sure she’d like what we can give her.”

He grabbed his crotch in a lewd gesture, nodding to his friend who made a similar threatening move.

“Ay, Mami,” his friend purred, wiggling his hips. They both laughed.

Matias wasn’t about to let some young gangbangers talk about his wife like that. Even if there was still a gun pointed in his direction. He felt the rage boil up under his skin, his pulse pounding against his temples. He didn’t bother to calculate his next move. What else did he have left to lose? His body moved, not as quickly as it used to, but quickly enough, his hands flying forward. They caught the assailant in the chest and he pushed him up against the tinted windows of the Cadillac. The gun was wedged between the two men’s bodies, but luckily not in a position to do much damage. The compatriot’s gun, however, was now pressed up against Matias’s temple.

“What the fuck man?” The young man yelled into his face, taken off guard.

“What is your name son?”

He was met with silence, but pushed into him harder.

“Huh? I can’t hear you? What is your name?”

“Ruben.”

“Ruben, why you threatening my wife? Huh? She’s sick. What kind of little fucker are you?”

“Sorry, man. I’m sorry.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“They call me Smiley,” the short one answered, his gun still raised.

“What you boys doing here? Huh? What do you want? Money?”

“We’re just looking around man.”

“Sure you were.”

“Come on, let me go,” he whined up against the hot car.

“There’s nothing here. No money. No food. No drugs. I think it’s time you boys left.”

Matias lessened the pressure against the man’s chest and took a step away. Smiley was still standing to his side, but he could see that his hand was shaking slightly. These were just kids. Kids out to prove themselves. Cowards looking for easy prey. Ruben shook himself off, adjusted his shirt, and shoved his gun into the back of his pants.

“Come on, Smiley. This fucker’s loco.”

But his friend didn’t move, his sights still set on Matias as he stepped further away from the car. Ruben opened the front door and slid in with an angry scowl on his face.

“Get in man. Let’s go.”

Finally the gun was lowered and Matias breathed a little deeper. He crossed his arms and stood there until the last of the dust kicked up by their tires had settled back to earth.

10. March 9, 2017. 3:19 A.M. London, England

Gregor felt another bead of sweat roll down his forehead. His head was throbbing and his whole body was cramped from sitting on the concrete floor, limbs pressed up against the metal grate. It rattled loudly as he shook out of his tortured slumber. There was still fresh blood seeping from his hand, staining the white bandages. His stomach was in knots from the lack of nourishment. There was still water running from the taps but the only food was from the half-empty vending machine down the hall. Stale chips and candy bars could only go so far when you’ve got thirteen hostages to feed.

They’d taken his cell phone, which Gregor honestly felt was the worst part of all. He’d been unable to contact his wife, his children; unable to patch back through to Anna. He had no idea if she was still okay or even in the building anymore. The coworkers had lost contact yesterday afternoon when the takeover of Battersea Water and Power had been successful. Their captors were surprisingly adept despite their young and brash appearances; they seemed to have a highly intelligent plan in place in order to exact the necessary control to achieve their ends. Those ends were yet to be fully illuminated, but they seemed to encircle the ideas of wealth distribution and government corruption. They’d seen the opportunity and seized it. Unfortunately, there were bound to be casualties along the way. So far the damage tally included two overhead electric lines and one security guard.

Yesterday afternoon seemed like a dream, or something straight from the pages of a crime thriller. His chain around the generator room doors had bought him just enough time to hide, although not enough time to make it back to his team. They’d shot open the doors and pushed inside: two older guys made for the generators themselves while four others searched the perimeter, looking for stragglers. The rebels had found the cage first where two women and one man cowered in the dark, clutching wrenches behind their backs in their sweaty palms. Owen and Arthur had stationed themselves elsewhere throughout the giant warehouse room, ready to pick off the intruders as they came in. Gregor had shimmied himself behind a cooling tank along the side of the safety station. Ensconced in brick and metal, he’d waited with his breath in his throat as heavy footsteps prodded around. He could hear the clanking of guns and pipes similar to the one he’d held in his hand.

There had been a loud shuffle and a wet thud, followed by a deep guttural cry and an explosive crack: Owen’s wrench had met someone’s face and they had retaliated with gunfire. Gregor could hear several people wrestling and wailing, Arthur’s voice among them, shouting. Whatever these people wanted, it was clear they were ready to kill for it and be killed themselves. Suddenly the whole situation took on a different flavor, the acidic bite of a deadly attack instead of a merely inconvenient one. Then the power went down.

The warehouse was flooded with blackness and the generator’s whine grew deeper and softer before disappearing altogether. Their senses scrambled to reconfigure, now that they could hear everything and see nothing. It took Gregor a moment to regain his bearings, every sound slowly coming into focus. There was someone right around the corner, and he flexed his fingers, curling it around the pipe, ready to strike. He’d stepped out into the darkness and swung, meeting a fleshy resistance and prompting the young man to cry out. Suddenly something came down hard near his head and his vision went white, searing pain shooting up through his skull. He remembered falling and someone kicking the pipe out of his hand, slicing it open as they did so. He’d clutched his bleeding hand and curled up on the cold concrete as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the cage next to Arthur, Libby, Janet, and Trent, his hand freshly bandaged. That was around 8 P.M. according to the old plastic clock on the wall.

He’d stretched and asked to use the restroom. Someone in a black bandanna came and pulled him up, causing the room to spin; he would have vomited if there had been anything in his stomach. The man escorted him out into the hallway and into the men’s bathroom, standing guard with a flashlight as Gregor relieved himself and splashed cold water on his face and scooped it into his mouth. He could hear the sounds of sirens and bullhorns outside, negotiating their release: the police had finally shown up! He knew it wouldn’t be long now and settled back into his corner of the cage, concentrating on eating his chips one by one. Then he’d fallen back asleep.

He sat on the floor, drowsy but awake enough to know that he was angry. Angry with the rioters that held them hostage, for not giving them real food or water, for hurting his friends. Angry at the police for taking so damn long. Angry that he’d worked his whole life to be faced with this. Angry with himself for not listening to his wife, for coming to work yesterday, for not buying that gun beforehand. The rage bubbled up inside of him as he stared at those three men in the generator room who stood in the glow of a lamplight, their guns in their pockets, standing smugly in their power. Gregor felt his hands grip the cage wall behind him, pushing his body up to stand. He wasn’t as dizzy as he was earlier.

“Greg, what are you doing?” Libby whispered, her voice hoarse.

“Shh,” replied Arthur, “Gregor, just sit down man. It won’t be long now.”

“No. I’ve had enough.”

His fingers rested on the door, sliding it slowly open enough for him to creep outside. So far the insurgents hadn’t noticed, and Arthur got to his feet as well to follow. The two men tiptoed out to the left of the cage, just out of view. Unfortunately, the closest way out of that room was through the main doors—the back doors were too far in the other direction and they’d risk being seen. They both just hoped there wasn’t something awful waiting on the other side.

“We’ll be safe behind the station, but then we’ll have to sprint the last part,” Greg murmured to his friend. “It’s wide open.”

“You sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. Come on.”

They slid along soundlessly, keeping the brick safety station between themselves and their captors. Arthur peered around the other side when they reached it, eyeing the distance to the door.

“We’ll have to run. Then once we’re through the doors, turn right. There’s an exit door at the end of that hallway.”

“Let’s just hope nobody is standing there.”

“Yep. Ready?”

“Ready. You first.”

Gregor put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, readying himself for the sprint. There was a split second of hesitation, and then his friend shot out from behind the station, his long legs pumping towards freedom. Gregor followed, his stride only slightly shorter, keeping his eyes fixed ahead—it was too risky to turn and look back. There was no quiet way to get through those doors, and so as Arthur slammed the lever open, there was a shout from behind. They’d finally been spotted.

“Hey!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

There were boots hitting the ground, coming for them. Gregor’s fingers were inches away from the lever when he heard a loud popping sound. Suddenly he felt like he’d been kicked in the back and his legs crumpled beneath him. His chest and face slammed hard into the concrete, his injured hand unable to break his fall. Libby’s scream echoed in his ears.

“What the fuck, Rowen?!” A man was yelling.

“Shit! Shit! I didn’t mean to shoot him.”

Gregor couldn’t feel his legs anymore, only a suffocating pain rising in him like floodwaters.

“Fuck!”

“The other one got away.”

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Now what? We just let him die?”

There was shuffling, bringing the argument closer.

The throbbing in his temples was finally subsiding, like all the pain receptors had decided to gather in his back. He felt like he was on fire and his shirt felt uncomfortably sticky. It wasn’t until he heard the word ‘die’ that Gregor realized that he’d been shot. His heart missed a couple of beats, fluttering to keep him alive, but it was too late.

There was now a pool of blood surrounding him and filling his nostrils with a sharp metallic smell, and his arms had gone numb as well. The feeling was draining away, replaced with a strange leaden sensation. It was like going underwater. His hearing muffled over and his brain began making up images that his eyes thought were real. The last thing he heard was a woman crying. Maybe it was Alice. She’d come to say goodbye. Then things went quiet.

He really should have stayed home.

11. March 9, 2017. 2:51 P.M. Istanbul, Turkey

Smoke and dust choked his nostrils and inflamed his mind. There was rubble everywhere, chunks of concrete and plaster scattered around him, some pieces as large as cars, some small enough to pass through his fingers. Photographs could do this no justice: there was nothing like seeing the effects of a bomb in person. Altan could barely recognize the street he was standing on, but he knew he was close to what used to be his home. He staggered up and over mounds of steel and brick, tears blinding his eyes and his heart in his feet. He knew the chances of finding them alive were slim.

After confirming his worst fears yesterday, he’d asked Sule to pack up their most precious possessions and prepare for a journey. They had to get out. Stay with friends in Italy until this whole thing blew over. The financial secrets of the company had been compromised when rebel hackers had infiltrated their system and exposed their secrets. Their private notes, underground relationships, oil reserve sites… all their dirty laundry had been aired. And their CFO was now dead. Altan knew it wouldn’t be long before they came for him, but he had overestimated the time they had to escape.

He’d gone into work one last time this morning, cleaning his office of personal things and shredding some of the last documents. All their phone lines had been bugged and their computer hard drives compromised. He was planning to leave on the last ferry out of Istanbul that night, traveling under the cover of night, sailing as tourists.

They’d had it all planned out. He’d told Sule to stay home and ready the children, but now he stood in the remains of his estate, mere hours before their departure time. Turkish soldiers and medics were now combing the area, working to pull bodies from the blast sites. All he could do was sit and watch them, praying to Allah to spare his family as the shock seeped into every corner of his body and soul. It was impossible to recognize the layout of his home now that it was in pieces, but he knew they were nearing the spot where the kitchen might have stood.

One of the German Shepherds barked, signaling her handler. She’d found someone. They began digging where she had marked, lifting stones and cutting metal as they went, desperate for a live find. It would be their first of the day. Suddenly the air was filled with shouts and medics ran to the area with gurney in tow. Altan’s heart leapt into his throat and he held his breath. He couldn’t see around the mass of people, but then he spotted something between the mix of legs. A hand. Then an arm. The gurney was moved into position. Then a flash of turquoise and gold, matted in dust and blood. It was Sule’s favorite dress. Every cell in his body screamed at him to move and he lifted his shaking limbs towards his wife. He made it only ten paces when the rest of her was freed from the stones, and he saw that her body was limp. The medics didn’t put on an oxygen mask on her seeing that she was already gone. They must move their resources elsewhere. He fell to his knees as he watched his wife carried away to the other side of the street and lay in the line of the others. His Sule, his queen; her life snuffed out.

Altan heard their shouts to one another, loud above the sounds of rumbling tankers, and he recognized the words ‘alive’ and ‘child’, imbuing him with a drop of hope. His legs moved again, running now towards the gaping mouth of rubble, waving his arms to attract a soldier’s attention.

“Please! My children! There! Please save them!”

There were tears making muddy tracks down his face.

“Sir, calm down. Please.” A medic took his arm.

“Fahri! Fatma! Can you hear me?”

“Sir, you are looking for someone?”

“Yes yes! My children! In the rubble. There!”

He pointed to where his wife was unearthed. The medic called out to her teammates, explaining their quarry in rapid-fire Turkish. They moved into place once again and pulled open the gash further.

“Sir, we found a child earlier in the area, but he was not alive. Do you want to see him?”

Every nerve was warning him not to look, not to fill his mind with any more death or sadness, but he knew he must see the boy. He had to know the truth. The medic guided him away, towards the row of bodies, towards a section of small ones at the end. She knelt down beside one of them, peeling back the sheet from the child’s face. It was Fahri. Seeing his dust-painted face and his hands folded peacefully on his chest made Altan feel the bile rise in his throat. He felt dizzy and clamped onto her to keep from falling.

Someone announced themselves behind them, a soft and defeated sounding voice. They’d found another child. The man held a small girl in his arms and before he ever saw the face, Altan knew it was his Fatma. Ten tiny spots of pink nail polish gave it away. It was her favorite color- she’d probably just put in on this morning in anticipation of vacation. It was too much to even comprehend. He stood up quickly, leaned against a half wall, and vomited. It was like he wasn’t even awake. Like another dream. Except without vultures, although he wouldn’t be surprised if they were circling above his head right at this very moment. He took one last look at the bodies of his family and staggered down the street.

He collapsed into the dirt behind a corner store and spotted a pistol lying a few feet away. Then the thoughts flooded into his mind and he knew. Everything suddenly made sense. He crawled towards the hot black metal and felt his shaking fingers curl around the grip. He slumped down onto the ground with his back on the cool brick and studied the gun, turning it over in his hands. His eyes were blurred with tears as he brought the muzzle to rest in his mouth. Allah would forgive him. Then the wall was painted red.

The sins of the father were paid. The stones had bled.

12. March 9, 2017. 4:16 P.M. Oxnard, California

Teresa had woken early that morning and busied herself making fresh huevos rancheros, which her entire family consumed with gusto. She seemed more herself that morning, even humming to herself as she loaded the plates and poured the coffee. Matias kissed her on the cheek and pinched the earlobes of both of his daughters. The stench of smoke had finally begun to clear out and it felt like a new life was beginning. He had gone down the road and bought ten buckets of seeds, spending the last of their cash on a dream and a prayer. He knew there would be strawberries again in that field.

He spent the afternoon walking the rows of dirt, dragging a rake and lifting his thanks to Our Lady. Only three lengths could be seeded today, but that was enough. He’d plant three more tomorrow. And the next day. Until it was finished. This was his field. He was wiping the sweat from his brow when a white man jumped out of a truck and walked towards him. Immediately the hairs stood up on his neck and his protective beast growled inside of him.

“Hola!”

“Hello,” he nodded at the approaching man.

“English?”

“Yes. Fine.”

“Do you work here?”

“Yes, until they burned the fields. Everyone left. It’s just me and my family here.”

“Oh really? But you are planting the field?”

“Yes. Of course. Life goes on.”

The man laughed, the lines around his eyes crinkled pleasantly.

“You are quite the man. What is your name?”

“Matias.”

“Well, Matias, I’m Rick.”

They shook hands. Like equals. He felt his body relax as he recognized that he wasn’t in danger.

“I am taking over ownership of this farm. Starting fresh.”

“Oh,” he clenched the handle of his rake.

“And I want you to work for me. As a manager.”

“Manager, huh?”

“Absolutely. You can oversee the planting and manage a team. Do you want to do that?”

He hesitated for a moment and looked over his shoulder to see his wife on the porch, watching them.

“I pay well Matias. You and your family will be taken care of.” He glanced over at Teresa.

“Si. Yes. Of course. Yes.”

“Great! I’ll be back on Monday. We’ll start work then.”

“Thank you.”

They shook hands again and Rick walked back to his truck. Matias looked up into the afternoon sky and smiled. There were no images of riches in his mind, only thoughts of love and gratitude. He waved to his wife and gave her a thumbs up sign, then turned back to the dirt. Kneeling in the freshly turned earth, he felt the blessings warm his skin and Our Lady standing there beside him. He scooped up a handful and brought it to his lips.

His field was a blessed field. This he knew for certain.

Copyright notice:

Copyright(c) 2014 by Talent Writers

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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Content

Melani Schweder
as Corine Channell
72 HOURS TILL DOOMSDAY

1. March 6, 2017. 9:22 A.M. London, England

2. March 6, 2017. 3:38 P.M. Istanbul, Turkey

3. March 6, 2017. 8:22 A.M. Oxnard, California

4. March 7, 2017. 5:29 P.M. London, England

5. March 7, 2017. 7:18 A.M. Istanbul, Turkey

6. March 7, 2017. 5:59 A.M. Oxnard, California

7. March 8, 2017. 12:44 P.M. London, England

8. March 8, 2017. 6:29 P.M. Istanbul, Turkey

9. March 8, 2017. 11:40 A.M. Oxnard, California

10. March 9, 2017. 3:19 A.M. London, England

11. March 9, 2017. 2:51 P.M. Istanbul, Turkey

12. March 9, 2017. 4:16 P.M. Oxnard, California

Copyright notice: