Steven Konkoly - The Perseid Collapse

He determined that the fading light from the initial flash had been centered on a true bearing of one hundred and seventy degrees, which was east of Boston—possibly out to sea. The tsunami added credence to this theory.

Asteroid or nuclear weapon, it didn’t change the fact that the explosion had occurred much closer to Boston than Portland, and their son lived on the sixth floor of a fifty-year-old, fourteen-floor dormitory tower overlooking the Charles River. The implications hadn’t escaped either of them. The tsunami would be bigger, sweeping down the Charles River and flooding the campus. The blast and wind effects of the initial strike would be more devastating, causing serious external damage to buildings, and the seismic effect of the impact would be more pronounced, resulting in structural damage.

Alex would never say it, but his body language betrayed the elephant following them from room to room. Their rescue mission stood a good chance of turning into a recovery mission.

“I wish my parents would use the damn satphone. I’d feel better knowing that everything is all right out there. Is there any warm water at all?” he said and stripped down to his underwear.

“None, according to Sam,” said Kate. “I’m sure your parents are fine. We’ll be out there soon enough.”

“They’re not exactly spring chickens, and technology kicks their asses—unless it’s the Internet. They’re all over that.”

Kate laughed. “They have more of a social media presence than I do.”

“More than both of us,” he said and paused. “This may sound strange, but I hope that both of their cars are out of commission.”

“I had the same thought. Driving around isn’t a good idea right now.”

“Especially for those two. The worst would be if one of the cars started on the first try, and they just drove into town, still oblivious. They’d lose the car at their first stop, or worse.”

“Limerick is a tight community. I wouldn’t worry about them,” said Kate.

“What we saw tonight is the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Ed’s Jeep carries more real-world value than the combined bank accounts of everyone in Scarborough. Don’t be surprised if we end up walking back from Boston.”

“Just stay in touch with the phone. Use your portable solar unit to keep it charged.”

“Unless we’re talking all day and all night, the phones should last pretty long,” said Alex.

“Humor me. If you end up walking back, we might not see you for several days.”

“I may have to talk Ed and Charlie into hiking a little further than I suggested. We can’t afford to lose the Jeep.”

“Good luck hauling Charlie and Ed that far,” she said quietly.

Alex leaned in, bringing his smelly body closer to hers. She tried not to react to the strong aroma of stagnant, rotting mud.

“Between you and me, I’m not taking either of them across the Charles—unless the situation requires it,” he whispered. “If I can convince them to guard the Jeep, all the better. Getting in and out of the city with our kids will require mobility and concentration. They’ll slow me down,” he whispered.

“These guys came through for you before. You’re not exactly a trained commando.”

“Compared to Ed and Charlie, I’m Delta Force. I’ll bring them as far as I can without jeopardizing the kids’ safety,” said Alex.

“Yeah, and good luck trying to talk Ed out of rescuing his daughter.”

EVENT +23:58 Hours

Scarborough, Maine

A thin line of dark blue light pushed gently against the black velvet curtain, barely noticeable through the distant trees. From the second-floor corner window of the Walkers’ house, Alex flipped his night vision goggles (NVG) down and surveyed the green image. The eastern half of the neighborhood was dark. He stared at a fixed point for several seconds, trying to register any movement in the limited field of vision afforded by the goggles. All was still. He moved to one of the front windows and knelt, scanning the houses along their departure route. The green imagery betrayed no signs of artificial light within the homes. He clicked his radio.

“Charlie, you showing anything on thermal?”

“Looks clear,” Charlie replied.

“Same here. First run leaves as soon as you reach the garage. Everyone set?” asked Alex.

Ed’s voice broke into his earpiece. “Loaded and ready.”

“That’s it, then. Drop Charlie at the top of the street, then straight to the fire station and back. No lights,” Alex instructed.

“Got it.”

Alex rested his arms on the rifle attached to his chest by a one-point sling and silently counted the seconds. He heard a deep rumbling by the count of seven and Ed’s voice at nine.

“Door is up. We’re on our way out,” said Ed.

“Route looks clear,” Alex said. “See you in a couple minutes.”

He scooted back from the window and raised his rifle, scanning over the sight through his NVG set. His left finger rested on the toggle switch for the dual-aiming laser. The garage door slid along creaky tracks, breaking the morning silence, followed by a V6 roar. He panned from left to right, focusing on each house momentarily. Even a small flashlight deep inside one of the homes would show up as a bright green flare. The engine idled for a moment; then Ed brought the Jeep down the driveway without headlights. He wouldn’t use them until they reached Harrison Road.

Alex stared over the Jeep, studying each house along the route for light. Clear so far. He checked the Jeep. Charlie stood on the left running board, holding onto the two bicycles bungeed to the roof rack. The Jeep’s tires sucked at the deep mud as the vehicle staggered down the street. Ed was playing it safe. Too safe.

“Come on. Get out of here, Ed,” he mumbled.

He didn’t think the mud was deep enough to trap a 4X4 vehicle, but Ed routinely took the Jeep off-roading, so it was his show. At this rate it would take more than a couple of minutes to make the round trip. When the Jeep disappeared behind one of the lifeless structures along Durham Road, he turned his attention back to the northeast half of the street, drawn to his own house next door. He was too exhausted to process the flood of emotions, so he stared, nearly convincing himself that they would be back to salvage whatever remained. He knew better. They all knew better.

He continued the sweep. The neighborhood represented a mixed bag of memories and emotions. They’d enjoyed a pleasant life on Durham Road, raising two children, tending to the yard, and paying the mortgage on time. Throw in a big vacation each year, and anyone would agree they had a nice thing going. They did—until a microscopic organism changed everything. Changed every one .

At least three-quarters of the neighborhood had turned over since 2014, which had been a blessing in many cases. Tensions between the two neighborhood factions reached unbearable levels after a brief post-pandemic “honeymoon” period, with kids taunting kids and adults frequently breaking into screaming matches. Most of the “for sale” signs were welcome additions to the landscape. Nearly all of them had been foreclosures. Financial relief measures authorized by the Pandemic Recovery Act hadn’t been designed to help families remain in half-a-million-dollar homes near the beach.

Worsening the crisis, life insurance companies folded en masse during January of 2014. Faced with an astronomical number of projected claims, most companies quietly faded away into the night, their cash assets liquidated and distributed to surviving executive management. Little remained for the Department of Justice to seize. Millions of insurance policies, designed and sold as the ultimate “safety net,” rarely yielded enough to pay off one of the family’s cars. More “for sale” signs.