Welcome to the end of the world. [complete]
Who: Mac McGregor and Simon St. James What: Discovering the problem When: June 2nd, 2008 [Backdated]
Simon St. James had always been an early riser, even in his adolescence when most teenagers delighted in sleeping past noon. The morning of June 2 was no exception, and he sat in his quiet kitchen, sipping his coffee and reading a new nonfiction he had borrowed from the library. The only reason he heard the rumble was because of the complete lack of noise; if Mac had been up and in the room talking to him, it's likely he would have missed it completely. Still, he almost dismissed it as thunder before he realized sunlight was pouring through the window. Well, that and the fact that he could feel it underneath him. He closed his book and moved to the window, and looked out. Nothing but trees, as per usual. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.
Mac entered the kitchen, jaw nearly popping as he yawned, stretching his arms above his head. He only had on a pair of sweatpants, but at such an early hour that was dressing modestly - considering he usually slept au naturale.
"It's too fucking quiet around here to sleep," he said, scratching the back of his neck. Mac was used to the constant noise of Southie - there was always some drunk yelling or cars honking.
Simon turned back from the window, smirking at Mac. He himself was fully dressed, casually in jeans and a button down shirt, his hair neatly combed. “I’m delighted you decided to grace me with your presence instead.” He let go of the blinds he had moved to peer out and they snapped back into place with a more startling noise than he’d anticipated.
“Although I think you may have just missed a minor earthquake...”
“No shit, really?” Mac said, padding over to the window and taking a look through the blinds that Simon had been peering though. “I didn't feel anything. Do they even have earthquakes around here?”
“Not usually. None we can feel, anyway. Tectonic plates are always shifting around, I’m sure, but yeah. It was weird.” He glanced back to the window, not wanting to add what he had hoped it had been: a car or motorcycle, someone dropping off his daughter to him, safe from her spectacularly stupid stunt, ready to be hugged and then promptly grounded.
But silence reigned now. They were all alone, as always.
Mac snorted and let the blinds go. "Tectonic plates, Simon? You know, if you flip about a hundred channels above the Discovery Channel you'll find some good old fashioned porn. Far more entertaining."
Simon shook his head. "Really, Mac? I had no idea there was anything higher than the History Channel. That's usually how I get my rocks off."
"The day I catch you jacking off to the biography of Rosa Parks or some other shit is the day we stop being friends." ... Because he'd probably be unable to stop himself from jumping the man and Simon would never speak to him again.
Simon shook his head. "No offense to the fine lady, but she doesn't really do it for me." He moved to grab the remote and turn on the small TV on the counter that had remained still and unused since Sandra and Clara had left. "Maybe there'll be something on the news about the quake." Instead, there was static. Simon flipped the channel. More static. "Huh."
Mac frowned as Simon changed channels and there was nothing. "Could it have knocked out the cable?" he wondered, all the while thinking that that didn't seem like something an earthquake would do - especially one that had been barely noticeable.
Simon wondered briefly if he had remembered to pay the cable bill, but then remembered just yesterday Mac had tuned in to watch a Red Sox game. "I don't know. I don't think so."
"Weird." Mac shrugged. "Maybe there's something on the internet?" He yawned again before heading over to the computer in the living room. "I can check if you want to call the cable company to see what the hell's wrong with your tv."
"Go for it. God knows I should address the issue now so we can wait all morning for a cable guy to show up... and that would give us enough time to go fishing later." He went to the cordless phone mounted on the wall and searched for the cably company's number on the list his wife had meticulously organized for every emergency imaginable. The cable company was right under the fire department, which didn't seem quite right in his mind. But it didn't matter anyway, because there was no dial tone. "Phone's dead too?" he said, bewildered.
When the computer booted, Mac discovered that the internet was on the fritz as well. He could go to some websites, but he was also getting a lot of errors and 401 pages not found.
"The internet's acting funky too," he said. He disappeared into the guest room that he'd been staying in, walking back into the kitchen with his cell phone in hand. "No signal, he said, flipping it closed and tossing it on the counter. "Not that that's all that unusual out here." Still, he was starting to get an unsettled feeling, like the one he'd get when they'd be out in the desert and things would just go quiet for the creepy calm before the fucking hailstorm of artillary. He folded his arms across his chest.
Simon hung up the phone, getting the same feeling seeping into his chest. "I don't like this."
"We sure the rumbling was an earthquake?"
Mac wasn't the most optimistic of people, so his mind went to worst case scenario's first, then worked it's way backwards. Plus, years in the army made him think differently than most.
In Iraq, something that felt like an earthquake was often just shelling off in the distance.
Course, he didn't know what around here would be target for attack.
"No," Simon said quietly. "We're not." He look a deep breath. As if there could be a worse time not to know where he daughter was. "If it's something out in the distance, we could see it from the top of the ridge." His house, set far out from the valley town, wasn't far from the north ridge. It made for a short but invigorating hike, and the view was a worthy reward. Except maybe not today.
Mac could almost feel Simon's worry.
"Let's go then," he said matter of factly. He snatched his phone from the counter, in case signal might be better from up there. "I just need a shirt."
In his room, Mac pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and returned, ready to go, in less than two minutes.
While Mac was in the guest room, Simon went to his own bedroom and pulled out the gun he kept in the sock drawer. Sandra had hated his fondness for weapons, but his stint in the army had convinced him they were sometimes necessary for defense. Luckily he'd never needed to use this one since he'd purchased it, but he tucked it into the back of his jeans and met Mac in the foyer.
"Lead on, Sacagawea," Mac said, gesturing toward the door. "I'll just get us lost."
"Sacagawea," Simon commented. "That's a good one."
The hike through the woods to the north ridge usually took about forty-five minutes, but with the adrenaline pumping through his veins, Simon lead them there in a little over thirty. As the trees cleared, the ground dropped abruptly in a cliff, and the view to the east was unobstructed. A vast mushroom cloud hung in the air, the sight of which caused Simon's mouth to dry up. Usually a man of proper language and politeness, the sight did not stop him from uttering, "Fuck."
Mac was glad he kept himself in shape, because Simon was booking up the damn mountain.
His jaw dropped slightly upon reaching the top.
"Jesus," he murmured. Mac had thought that maybe something had exploded, or maybe, just maybe, some idiot country had tried to attack them with an air strike. Pecismist though he was, not even he would have dreamed that someone would have dropped a nuke on US soil.
Simon swallowed hard. "I'm thinking that was Philly."
"Emphasis on the was," Mac returned grimly. He turned, looking in a southern direction, frowning. "Wouldn't they go for D.C.?" If you were going to bomb someone why not take out the place calling the shots? Unless they already had...
"I don't think we can see D.C. from here," Simon said. "But a lot of central hubs for us would be in Philly. That would explain the cable, the phone... although not really the internet...." He took another deep breath, finding he couldn't tear himself away from the sight. "I think we need to tell someone about this..."
Mac pulled out his phone, not surprised to still see 'No Signal' across the display screen.
"Guess we'll have to do it the old fashioned way," he said. "At least going down'll be easier."
Simon turned back toward the path that had led them up there, then halted and glanced at Mac's cell phone. "Can you take pictures on that thing? I have a feeling no one's going to believe us otherwise..."
"They aren't professional grade or anything, but yeah." Mac flipped open his phone and snapped a few pictures, shaking his head slightly at how fucking surreal this was all turning out to be.
"Thanks." Simon started back down the path, running through his head who would be the best person to go to first, and who would be up so early on a Saturday. Although an impolite awakening was nothing compared to the fact that someone had dropped a nuke on Philadelphia and who knew where else. "Who do you think would be better: mayor or police chief?"
"Who's less of a douche-bag?" Mac asked. In his experience, most people in any form of authority outside of the army were generally incompetent and usually jerks.
"They're both decent guys. It's the deputy sheriff you need to look out for. Luckily they've been smart enough not to put him in a position of power."
"Then I'd say go to whichever's more likely to be able to get in contact with somebody. Like the National Fucking Guard." \
Simon nodded. "Police chief it is. Wilcox is a capable guy."
Mac trusted Simon's judgment, so he simply gave a nod and followed him.
They reached Simon's house, stopping briefly to grab the keys for his truck, and Simon and Mac rode down to the main part of Normalville together. Police Chief Wilcox lived in a modest colonial, on a street lined with picket fences and well manicured lawns. Simon feared waking him, but the older man had just stepped out of his front door, fully clothed, to retrieve his morning paper as they pulled up.
Mac stepped out of Simon's truck, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting up after shutting the door. He didn't know the police chief, so he stayed quiet and let Simon do the talking.
After some pleasantries -- Wilcox had been a good friend of Simon's father, Simon cut to the chase. He explained what had happened with the cable, phone and internet, and what they had seen on the North Ridge. Wilcox looked troubled but resolute and informed them he would make the rounds and get the right people informed and then call a town meeting. "In the mean time," Wilcox said, "I know both you and your friend were military. Simon, do you still have the transistor radio your father loved so much?" When Simon confirmed that he had, Wilcox requested that they try to use it to see if they could tune into any military channels and see if they could make contact and find out any information. "Let's reajourn at noon... I'll be ringing the church bell to signal for a town meeting."
"He seems competent enough," Mac said when they'd left Wilcox. He felt better now that he'd had a smoke - a sure sign of dependency, but who gave a shit.
"He's a competent guy," Simon said as he drove back to his house. "And not prone to panic, which is good. I just hope we have something useful to share at the town meeting. I haven't touched that transistor radio in ages, I think it's in the basement somewhere."
"I'm sure there a shitload of info going over military airwaves after a bombing like that," Mac replied. He didn't voice the thought that had struck him upon first sight of the mushroom cloud - wondering if the US had fired back.
Simon parked the car and went back inside, heading down to the basement. After twenty minutes of searching, he found the transistor radio. "Here," he said to Mac, "help me get this hooked up."
Mac did, twisting some dials and muttering a curse as nothing but static came through. "I never understood this shit - radio operators always spent more time trying to get the fucking things to work than actually sending messa--" He cut off as a voice broke through the static.
They stood still in perfect silence as the military broadcast went out, explaining in a forced calm the bombing of several major American cities, and -- as Simon had been fearing -- retaliation. The static cut through and blocked out who had been the target, but the destruction was "complete." Clean up operations in the homeland were difficult, as they had been pounded so hard, and the vast effects of radiation from the blasts had not yet been caclulated. The voice relayed its location, a bunker in the Appalachians a good 50 miles north of them. The transmission ended with, "God be with us all"... and then began again about 10 seconds later. "It's a recording," Simon said quietly. Somehow, that made it all the more ominous. "Jesus. Complete destruction of the enemy? It's barely 9 am... a three hour war..." he broke off, unable to muster any more words.
Mac had crossed his arms as they listened, expression serious. "They fucking did it. The idiots finally did it. That many nukes in that short of time - how fucked are we here?"
"Pretty fucked, I'd say, " Simon said quietly. "They always said if you set off too many nukes at once it will plunge the world into nuclear winter. If our military's hiding out in a bunker..." He shook his head. "We could all have a couple weeks to live."
"Fucking great," Mac muttered, mind now on his father. The recording hadn't mentioned anything about Boston, which was a relief. Still, if there was fallout...
Simon was thinking about his own family -- Sandra, in Seattle, was likely dead. Although they hadn't been friendly near the end, he had still been married to her for nearly 20 years... the thought was a shock, although not nearly as bad as... "Clara," he said softly. Where had she been when all this happened? Was she scared? "I have to find her... Mac, I have to find her!"
"Simon, we have to figure out what's going first," Mac said. He didn't want to point out that Clara had been missing for nearly a week and she could be anywhere, assuming she was even still alive.
Simon rarely yelled. And Mac rarely yelled at him. This was enough to shake him out of the panic he had been slipping into. He bit his lip and scrubbed his face with his hands, running them back through his hair. "I'm sorry, Mac... I just... Jesus."
Mac sighed; he wasn't exactly Mr. Reassurance. He reached his hand out, squeezing Simon's shoulder in an attempt at comfort. "Hey, Clara's a tough cookie, man. I'm sure she's fine." He looked around the basement. "Let's get the fuck out of this basement. I don't know about you but I could use a stiff drink before we go to that meeting."
Simon sighed and nodded although he wasn't sure if he believed Mac. He definitely appreciated his friend's presence, however. If Mac hadn't decided to come visit him, he'd be facing this disaster entirely alone. He headed back up the stairs. "So, scotch or whiskey?"
Scotch," Mac said. "Good hard scotch."
Simon nodded, headed for the wet bar in the dining room. "Good choice." He poured them both stiff drinks.
"I know my liquor," Mac said, taking the drink from Simon with a thanks. He threw it back with the practiced motion of someone who drank plenty. He set the glass down and closed his eyes as the Scotch slid down his throat. "That's better."
Simon smiled in spite of himself and tried to down the drink in similar fashion -- not bad, but he had to do it in two swallows. "Looks like you, win, buddy."
"When the last time you went out for a real drink?" Mac asked him, shaking his head with a small grin as he watched Simon try to shoot the scotch.
Simon tried to think. "The day Sandra served me divorce papers, I think."
Mac's grin faded slightly. He wanted to say something along the lines of Sandra being a fucking bitch, but he kept the thought to himself, since he doubted Simon would appreciate it. "Well, we'll have to fix that later. I can make some fucking wicked drinks."
"Sounds good," Simon said. "At least we have something to report at the meeting..."
"That's the spirit," Mac said. "Way to see the silver lining."
The town meeting, assembled by the ringing churchbell and then held in the nearby town hall, was brief and grim, and there was a surprising turnout, Simon thought. He and Mac shared their stories, and the mayor, Jeffrey Smith, and WIlcox were surprisingly calm with what was to be done. It was decided that several of them would go out in a search party to the army base, to make contact and see if they could learn anything else.
They left that afternoon, promising to return in three days' time.
After a week, many of the townspeople started to panic, especially with the mayor gone and showing no signs of returning. Families packed up, determined to leave and find their loved ones, or at least a shred of information about what was going on out there. WIlcox left this time, creating a vacuum of power in the police force. Deputy Sheriff Henry Browning was left in charge, although the townsfolk were instructed to go about life as usual until they returned.