Melani Schweder - 72 Hours till Doomsday

“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.

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.