72 Hours till Doomsday

72 Hours till Doomsday

By Melani Schweder

Copyright notice:

Copyright(c) 2014 by Talent Writers

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this publication is allowed to be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author. Only reviewers are allowed to quote brief passages from this publication.

Table of Contents

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.

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.

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.

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.