Page 12 of The Last Stars in the Sky
“I think we’ll have better luck with AM,” he says, but there is only static on every station. Thoughts are flashing through my mind like streaks of lightning—Westport is sixty miles from New York. Would it have been destroyed in the blast? No, surely it’s too far. But what about the fallout, the radiation dust, all that stuff from the sci-fi movies that I don’t really know anything about? I have no idea at all about the answers, how much danger everyone is in. My brother, my sister, my mother. She’s maybe eighty miles from the city, in her locked memory care unit…my mind races.
Have the carers left? What about all the hospitals that no longer have electricity? What about the people on life support or in desperate need of dialysis, breathing therapy, defibrillators…what about thebabies? Preemies in NICUs, toddlers in pediatric wards…or even all the children at home, including my own, whose future has been wiped away in an instant.
I can’t let myself think about all the repercussions, not until I know more. I strain to hear something amid the radio’s static, but there is nothing. I shiver as I hunch my shoulders and fold my arms, trying to keep warm; I should have put my coat on.
“From the news report I heard before it shut off,” Daniel says quietly as he continues to twiddle the dial, “it seemed the strikes were only on cities.”
“Only?”
“I mean,” he explains with a preternatural sort of calm, his face set and grim, “that they didn’t target our own nuclear warheads or oil refineries, or anything like that, which apparently would have made everything much, much worse in terms of radiation and fallout, ongoing pollution, that kind of thing.” He glances at me. “That’s the world annihilation scenario. This isn’t.”
I suppose I should take some small semblance of hope from that, and yet I can’t.
We don’t even know who’s responsible for the strikes. Has anywhere else been hit—South America, Europe, Asia, Africa? Or is it just the big bad US that’s been, yes,annihilated? I remind myself that I don’t actually know anything, that all I’ve seen is a TV screen of smoke and fire, that this could,maybe, be one giant hoax. Outside, the sunlight shimmers on the lake.
Then the static on the radio breaks, and a voice comes on, scratchy, tense, cutting out every few seconds. We both hold our breath, strain to listen to the faint, tinny sound. It takes me a second to realize it’s the president of the United States speaking.
“The most important thing is for everybody to stay calm,” he says, and a laugh escapes me, torn from my body, high and wild. Seriously? “If you are outside,” he continues, “please find the nearest shelter. Anyone within ten miles of any of the strike zones should stay inside, with the windows closed at all times. If you have a basement, shelter in it. Do not leave your residence. I repeat, donotleave your residence. Water and food will be distributed to those in need as soon as possible. We are working hard to restore our infrastructure, and hope to have electricity working again, along with running water, in the affected areas, within the next few days. Please be patient and donotpanic. This is a devastating moment for our great country,” he concludes, his voice choking briefly, “but we will, with time and effort and, most of all, unity, rise above it. God bless you all.”
I let out a shuddering breath as the radio briefly goes to static again, before another voice comes on, this one a woman’s; she sounds shaken but firm. “That was the president of the United States, speaking from an undisclosed location. I’m Shelley Stevens broadcasting from KYZWatertown. To summarize what we know so far, early this morning, nine nuclear missiles have hit major metropolitan centers in the United States—New York, WashingtonDC, Miami, Chicago, Houston, Phoenix, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Boston.”
“Boston.” The word comes out of me in a something between a shriek and a groan; Sam’s college is close to the border with Massachusetts. I turn to Daniel. “How far is that from Sam?”
His expression is shuttered, his gaze focused on the radio. “About a hundred and fifty miles. I think.”
I gulp back the scream inside me, the shrill insistence that we go get himright now. I know we need more information, we need a plan, even if I can’t imagine what that might be. This isn’t a hoax, and the numb terror inside me feels too big to absorb, to allow.
“It appears that there is a power outage over most of the country right now,” the broadcaster continues, “as well as severe disruption to water and gas supplies. Telephone and internet services are also currently not working across, it is believed, most of North America. As you heard, the president is advising people to stay in their homes and wait for assistance, and to that end martial law is in full effect across the entire country until further notice. There is no word from government sources about whether retaliatory strikes have been either considered or planned, or if further strikes are expected.”
I press my fist to my mouth, bite my knuckles. Hard. The broadcaster continues, her voice wavering a little, “Until we know more, we advise, as the president of the United States has instructed, for everyone to stay in their homes andwait for assistance. This is Shelley Stevens, broadcasting from Watertown.”
When the radio goes to static again, I slump back against the seat. My heart is racing, but I feel, quite suddenly, completely exhausted, as if getting through the next few minutes is as inconceivable as getting through the next few years.
“I think I should go into Flintville,” Daniel says, naming the tiny town ten miles away from here, in the opposite direction to Corville; it’s nothing more than a gas station that offers a few groceries, a couple of houses, and a church.
I turn to him. Every thought is coming so slowly it’s as if I’m half-asleep, fighting my way out of a stupor. “Flintville? Why?”
“We might be able to find out a little more about what’s going on. Some people might have a better satellite service there, better reception. And I might be able to get some gas.”
“Okay.” I nod slowly, my mind seeming so sluggish that every thought is hard to hold on to. The frantic energy that was racing through me has vanished; I feel as if I’m moving through molasses, mind and body. “Should I come with you?”
Daniel shakes his head. “No, I think you should stay here with Mattie and Ruby. I…I don’t think we should leave the cottage empty.”
“Empty?”
“I don’t know.” He rubs a hand over his face. “People can panic in situations like this—”
“Situations like this?” I let out a hollow, hopeless laugh. “When have we ever been in a situation like this?”
“You know what I mean. There’s a power outage for a couple of hours and people start looting, smashing windows. Times that by a factor of, I don’t know, a thousand. A million.” He blows out a breath. “We don’t know how quickly services will be restored anywhere. Or if there will be further strikes. If the US retaliates—”
“Stop.” I hold up a hand. “I can’t think about that.” I can’t think about any of it. “Go to Flintville,” I tell him evenly. “Get some gas.” Daniel nods, and I keep his gaze as I finish, “And then we’ll get Sam.”
SIX
After Daniel leaves for Flintville, the cottage feels strangely empty. Mattie and Ruby are still asleep, and I’m afraid to turn the TV on, so I end up simply prowling around, rubbing my hands together, trying both to think and not think at the same. After a few useless minutes, the steady rumble of the generator suddenly jolts through me.What if we can’t get any more propane?
I run outside and fumble to switch it off, and the world is plunged into a sudden, absolute silence. I didn’t realize just how loud the thing was until I turned it off, and I wonder how much propane we’ve wasted, running the lights, the heaters, the damned TV. The trivialities of life, now, when we have to start thinking differently. I’m not sure I even know how or where to begin.
