Tim Washburn: The Day After Oblivion

Over Greenland

Melissa Watkins sighs and unbuckles her seat belt, climbing over the other two people sitting in her row. Three hours out of London, their flight is scheduled to land at New York’s JFK airport in six hours. Melissa shuffles up the aisle and stops next to the teen who has been a thorn in her side the past eleven days. She grabs the left earlobe of fourteen-year-old Jonathon Taylor and twists, whispering, “I’m not going to tell you again. Keep your hands to yourself.” She gives the earlobe another twist to reinforce her words as Jon tries to duck away. She points a finger at him then shuffles back down the aisle and climbs over her fellow passengers, collapsing in her seat.

Melissa is exhausted. A middle schoolteacher from Lubbock, Texas, she supplements her teaching income by chaperoning a group of teenagers as they tour a foreign destination for twelve days in the summer. The organization, Teen World Discovery, offers an international program designed to broaden the minds of middle school students. This year’s group numbers seventeen, including Jonathon and another turd-head, Caleb Carson. Their behavior has Melissa questioning whether she’ll ever do this again.

Most of the students are from West Texas, as is the second chaperone, Lauren Thomas, who teaches at Plainview Middle School, north of Lubbock. Lauren currently occupies the seat next to Melissa and she leans over and whispers, “Jon again?”

“Yes. I’m ready for that little shithead to be out of my hair. If I have any hair left after this is over.”

Lauren chuckles. “I’m tired of looking at all of them. The girls aren’t much better. Drama, drama, drama.” The two teachers had divided the group, Lauren taking responsibility for the ten girls, while Melissa drew the short straw and ended up with the seven boys.

Melissa kicks at her overstuffed carry-on crammed under the seat in front of her. “Tell me again why we do this?” Melissa is twenty-three, has a pear-shaped body, and is a tad too heavy for her five-foot-three-inch frame. She has an on-and-off boyfriend and the relationship is currently in the off position.

“The money, honey,” Lauren says. “Three grand for twelve days is more than we could make working part-time for an entire summer. Plus we get free travel to places we could never afford.”

“All of that sounds divine if we could leave the kids behind.”

During their trip, they’ve hiked, bussed, and trained all over the United Kingdom. From London to Glasgow, they toured archaic churches, bustling parks, and historic landmarks, finishing most evenings with a nice dinner. Or what were supposed to be nice dinners. Taking seventeen teenagers to dinner is like herding cats. The first items tossed around the table are the sugar packets, followed by the loosening of the lids on the salt and pepper shakers, and all that is topped off by spitballs shot through straws. Melissa shudders, thinking about it. She flags down a flight attendant and orders a glass of red wine.

If the dinners weren’t bad enough, once back at the hotel, Melissa and Lauren were responsible for keeping the students in their assigned rooms. They instituted a strict curfew for 11:00 P.M., but were often up well past midnight to enforce it. No doubt some of the kids are sexually active and the last thing either of them wanted was for a girl to return home knocked up. Melissa pushes those thoughts out of her mind when her wine arrives. She chugs the first glass and orders another.

“How long is our layover in New York?” Lauren asks. Twenty-seven, Lauren is the exact opposite of Melissa. She’s long, well proportioned, and has a head of dark wavy hair that brushes the top of her narrow shoulders. Currently unattached, she has her share of suitors, but none have clicked as of yet.

“Two hours, I think. I can’t remember what time we’re due to arrive in Dallas.” Melissa cranes her head over the seat in front of her to see Jon playing hand slap with the boy seated next to him. “Lauren, do you mind switching seats with Jonathon?”

“No, I don’t mind. But I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. I’ll go talk to him.”

“Thank you. Maybe we could slip him an Ambien.”

“I wish.” Lauren pulls herself out of the seat and climbs across the lap of Lindsey Scott, a mousy fifteen-year-old from Lubbock. A clinger, Lindsey hasn’t been more than ten feet from Lauren during the entire trip. Lauren shuffles down the aisle and squats down next to Jonathon. “That’s enough. If I have to come up here again, I’m calling your father the moment we land. Do you want me to call him?”

Jonathon shakes his head.

“I’m going to be watching you the rest of the flight. Keep your hands to yourself or my first call is to your father. And it won’t just be a telephone call, Jonathon. I’ll request he fly to New York to pick you up. Think that’ll make him happy?”

Jonathon frowns and shakes his head again.

Lauren makes a jabbing motion toward her eyes with two outstretched fingers and points at Jonathon before retreating to her seat.

“How’d it go?” Melissa asks.

“I threatened to call his father. Told him I’d make his dad fly to New York to pick him up.”

“Jesus, I hope that doesn’t happen. That man’s an asshole.” Having taught Jonathon last year, Melissa’s very familiar with the boy’s father. “ Overbearing doesn’t even begin to describe the man. No wonder his son is such a little shit.”

Melissa takes a sip of wine and both women settle into their seats. Little do they know their journey is just beginning.

10 Downing Street, London

United Kingdom’s prime minister, Blair Hamilton, is reading through the latest in a pile of documents on Britain’s exit from the European Union when his phone rings. He turns to look at the phone console, but doesn’t see any flashing lights. On the second ring he realizes the call is coming from the special beige phone tucked away in a drawer of his desk—the hotline to the White House. He opens the drawer and picks up the handset. “Hello, Tom,” he says as he leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other.

President Thomas Aldridge clears his throat and says, “Blair, we have an emergency situa—”

The call drops. “Hello? Tom, can you hear me? Hello?” Hamilton uncrosses his legs and leans forward, tapping the disconnect button then speed dial one. Silence. He hangs up the handset and turns to his office phone, triggering the intercom. “Brenda, please place a call to President Aldridge.”

“Yes, sir,” his secretary, Brenda Montgomery, says.

While waiting for Brenda to make the call, he tries the hotline again and gets the same result. “What the bloody hell,” he mutters, hanging up the phone again.

Moments later, the intercom chimes. “Sir, I tried to ring the White House, but the call won’t go through,” Brenda says.

“What do you mean, ‘won’t go through’?”

“All I hear is silence, sir.”

A tingle of worry forms at the nape of Hamilton’s neck and begins to inch down his spine. “Try placing a call to our ambassador in D.C.”

“Yes, sir,” Brenda replies.

Hamilton, feeling like a telemarketer working the phones, picks up his office phone and makes a call to the Director of MI6. “George, is something going on?”

“Yes, sir. You were my next call. It appears that the—”

“Hello? George? George?” Hamilton slams the handset down just as the intercom chimes again.

“Sir, the same thing is happening when I try to call our ambassador.”

“Silence?”