Морин Макхью - Wastelands - The New Apocalypse

“Iveta. That’s me,” I said.

“Samira. I’m helping shelter management. Our medical information on the refugees assigned here is incomplete. I’m trying to fill it up.”

“This late in the game?”

“We still have a few hours before impact.” She smiled an almost-genuine smile. She was trying; I gave her that much. “They didn’t even realise they missed this information until I pointed it out.”

“It’s been chaotic,” I said airily, which was an understatement the size of the comet that was about to hit us.

“So you’re from Latvia?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

I leaned against a table. The room was surprisingly empty—most people were guarding their bags in the sleeping halls. “Yeah, well.” I scratched at the table, seeking resistance and finding only smooth surface. “We might survive all right.”

The comet had been announced in July 2034, half a year ago. They hadn’t been certain where it would hit: Eastern Europe was their best guess. It might hit south of that, near the Middle East, in which case my words to Samira might be true; it might hit north of that, near Scandinavia, in which case Samira’s sympathies were justified but nowhere near enough.

Latvia wouldn’t be the only casualty. The Netherlands wouldn’t stay intact, either. No place would. Not with impact dust masking the sun for at least a year, not with wildfires and earthquakes and more. Millions—perhaps billions—of people had already left on generation ships or taken shelter in permanent basements deep underground. The rest of us only had these temporary government shelters to outlast the initial impact. Afterwards, we’d flood back onto the surface and fend for ourselves.

But even if the Netherlands didn’t stay intact, it would exist .

Latvia might not.

“Did you bring any instruments?” I asked abruptly. “Or do you sing?”

Her head cocked. “Badly enough to make my fiancé leave the room.”

I exhaled with a whistle. “All right. What do you need to know?”

For the next ten minutes, I told her about my spina bifida and all that came with it: from my club foot to my partially paralysed legs, from my spinal implant against chronic pain to my shunt to manage my hydrocephalus.

“What does that implant run on?”

“Body heat. We got the latest and greatest.” Money had been one of several upsides to my bout of fame. I’d made enough to move my family into an accessible apartment and buy a brand-new wheelchair for shows and long distances. It had gotten stolen on the long, crooked escape from Latvia to the Netherlands.

“Good. We can charge prosthetics and equipment, but the more power we save, the better.”

We’d sat down at a table in a quiet corner. Normally, people got weirded out when presented with my laundry list of conditions. Samira hadn’t batted an eyelash. She’d asked all the right questions, too, but for the sake of completeness rather than prying.

“How much do you know about KAFOs?” I knocked on my leg braces.

“Sorry?”

“You’re a doctor. It’s not exactly the flu or messing with organs, but how good are you with orthotics?”

“I’m just a volunteer. I’ll ask Dr Kring, but he’s been busy. Some of the refugees arrived with severe malnutrition.”

At least someone was looking after them. The refugee centre volunteers had tried to help, but doctors—like food—were a rare commodity. Too many medical professionals had left on generation ships or moved into permanent shelters.

Again: just like the food.

Samira leaned in as though confiding in me. “I’m… really just a medical student. I simply volunteered when I saw how overworked Dr Kring was.”

I scratched at the table and was left just as unsatisfied as before. “All right.”

“What’s the matter with your orthoses?”

I stood. “It’s not urgent. Like you said: we’ve got all the time in the world.”

“I said we have three days.”

My smile was steady. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

Any minute now.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel.

I sat on the bed, Mum on one side, Dad on another, both leaning into me as though that would help. Someone from shelter management had given a speech about what we’d need to do around impact time, and they’d repeated themselves on the intercom system.

The instructions were clear: stay on your cots; stay calm; we’ll update you when we can . We’d feel shaking, but they didn’t know how strong or how long for. We might hear something, but they doubted it.

I thought half a year would’ve been enough to prepare me, but it still hadn’t sunk in. Mum stared stoically ahead. Dad had tear tracks on both cheeks. Me—I didn’t know whether to panic or cry, and in the end, I did neither. Instead, my mind wandered off, tweaking lyrics in Latvian and English both. I reached for my wrist only to find it empty, our wrist tabs bartered for food weeks before.

Mum took my hand, squeezed it. “We’ll be fine,” she whispered.

I squeezed back and hoped she didn’t expect me to believe her.

The lights flashed bright and crackled for a flash of a second.

Then they went out.

Gasps. Beds creaked as people sat upright. Someone called out in Dutch. Next, a high-pitched voice spoke in Russian. Then, a pained groan.

My eyes were still adjusting, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to find some source of light that was just too faint for me to have clung onto yet. Didn’t some people still have their tabs? Shouldn’t there be light coming from underneath the doors?

Nothing.

Experimentally, I raised my hand in front of my face. I didn’t see a thing. I couldn’t remember darkness like this since—since ever.

“What’s happening?” someone called in English. “No one warned us about this!”

Dad grabbed my hand. At the same time, Mum stood. I could only tell because the bed veered up below me and her clothes brushed past mine.

The yells layered into each other, near and far, angry and frightened, in languages I didn’t even recognise. All of a sudden, I missed home with a passion. I missed my room, the Dauvaga Promenade, Grandma’s mushrooms, performing at Kalnciema Quarter, a quiet mind and not translating every word and music—

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Mum insisted, yanking me back to the dark. “They have enough battery power for days. And the shelters are shielded against EMPs.”

“Maybe they turned off the lights as protection,” Dad said.

I didn’t bother to shake my head. They wouldn’t see. “Shelter management would’ve warned us.” Governments had announced months in advance why and when they’d be deactivating the power plants, to give time to prepare. There was no chance shelter management would’ve so thoroughly informed us about our rations and the bathroom policy, but neglect to mention turning off the lights.

I peeled Dad’s hand from mine and stood, feeling Mum’s presence by my side. “Does anyone have a tab?” I called in English. “We could use the light to—”

“Tabs aren’t working!” someone shouted back. “Mine was fully charged—”

“Mine just turned off—” someone else added.

“Doctor!” someone screamed. It might’ve been in Dutch, but if so, the word was similar enough to leave no doubt. “ Doctor!”

Snippets of shouts. I caught a word here— heart —and there— help —which was enough.

Lights out. Tabs dead. Sudden heart attacks.

“The shielding didn’t work,” I said.

Abruptly, it hit me what that meant. If there was an EMP, it meant the comet had hit, that it really had happened after all these months, and Latvia was—