7: George – Panic

Chloe held everyone’s gaze through the screen as the timer hit zero. She didn’t blink when the screen flashed and her transmission cut out. The flicker of a hazy, spectral afterimage faded to black.

Back in the cavern, the overhead lights did likewise. Those watching were left in the dark.

“The hell?” someone cried.

The background hum of electric production died and speakers fizzled out with the picture. Phone torches and screens flicked on, joined by a half dozen flashlights sweeping a sea of wide eyes and gaping mouths.

An engineer felt her way down to the music pit to find the hand crank for the screen. The room held its collective breath, waiting to see if the flitting light from behind it was the sun or incoming atomic fire. A muttered prayer echoed somewhere near the front while all but one pair of eyes fixed on the rising blinds.

That one pair was Holden’s. He slumped forward in his fingers, Chloe’s name on his lips. George laid a hand on his shoulder, but Cat snatched it for herself. She held his knuckles to her chest, eyes shut tight, and pale in the dim light. George gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze.

“Did we get hit?” she whispered. “Did the bomb get us?”

George had no answer.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice called up. “Please remain seated while we find out what’s happened, and for safety’s sake, do not leave the room.”

A wide, blinding beam lit the lower balconies as the screen rose past the bottom of the window. Manual winding was a slow process, but an ocean view greeted the crowd with the unmistakable sparkle of sunlight on water. A relieved sigh swept the rows.

Human Resources called his staff to the front.

“Nothing’s happened out there.” he said. “I think we’re safe. Check every system. Get me answers and deal with any problems you find before they grow out of control.”

“Think it’s a hoax?” one of them asked.

“I think it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

The men hurried from the cavern. Cat pulled on George’s arm and threw her weight around his neck as the screen wrapped up its ascent. Daylight filled the cave, the light harsh after total darkness, but greeted with a round of murmured gratitude. 

Rhea reached back. “George?”

He nodded with a smile and reached out with his free hand, but instead of taking it, Rhea mouthed a distinct “What the fuck?” at the girl across his chest.

He tried to peel Cat off but her fingers were locked tight. He shrugged.

“She’s scared.” He explained.

Rhea scowled and left her seat.

“Fine.” She said. “You made your point.”

“What?” He stretched out further. “Hey, babe, wait—”

The lights flickered on and the vents pulled in air. George’s plea of innocence was drowned by a mass cheer and a voice overhead.

“Emergency power running. Storage only. Main production was stopped by emergency subsystems. No faults found. Checking again.”

Rhea slipped into her father’s circle, out of sight and where George couldn’t follow. He let her go and turned his focus on Holden. 

“Buddy,” George said. “I’m so sorry.”

Alfredo and Bobert passed them on the stairs, a sandwich in each hand. They sidled around the mayor’s circle to the window.

“Don’t move,” George said. “I’ll be back.”

He patted his friend’s head and dragged Cat to her teammates. She was a quivering mass burying herself in his shoulder, and he was forced to descend three small steps with same measured stumbles of O’Toole, sans cane.

Others joined Alfredo and Bobert, surveying the cityscape for damage. George hoisted Cat through the crowd to find them.

The sky outside was mercifully clear. No mushroom clouds loomed on the horizon, no smoking crater burned in place of their homes. Shipyard Bay and Island stood where they always had, nothing out of place and nobody dead. Even the seagulls carried on as normal.

Another day in paradise.

George tossed Cat into the arms of her friends.

“Here, stay with them.” He said. “I have a domestic to deal with.”

She shook her head and her arms squeezed tighter.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he said, prying her off. “Look, see? The city’s still there. Nobody got blown up.”

She looked down through the glass. “The city’s still…”

“That’s right, still there.” 

She pointed, jabbing the glass. “No, the city’s still. Look! Completely standing still.”

George looked at the island, wondering what he was looking for.

Alfredo nodded. “She’s right. Nothing’s moving. Looks like all the power’s gone. That means all the computers are down. So no computers, no infrastructure. No traffic lights.”

“The buildings with solar panels seem to be working.” Bobert said. “And the windmill.”

More voices joined in from the back.

“What if the nukes went off behind us and the fallout’s blowing this way?”

“Towards the sea?”

“There’s no nukes. You see anything wrong with that sky?”

“The seagulls would have flown off.”

“Hey, my favorite district’s really dull without red lights.”

George gave Cat’s hand another squeeze.

“Alfredo, Bobert, you two look after her.” He said, and left before she could argue.

Back in the music pit, Rhea stood with her dad, privy to a similar if more decisive line of conversation. Nobody had asked if she was fine and her dad had given just a cursory nod before turning back to discuss action with O’Toole.

The Mayor ticked her way through a checklist of emergency protocols in efficient fashion, delegating each action to the person most suited to fulfilling it, or at least those who weren’t overcome by panic. 

“Excuse me.” George’s voice said. “Coming through. Registered voter, by the way, so try to make me feel wanted. Whoa there, Roadblocks, concerned gentleman here to check on the pastor’s daughter. Oi, Sasquatch, move your big foot.”

Rhea turned to face the incoming voice, hoping security would keep him from invading the mayor’s entourage, but George’s head popped in between two waistcoats and their wearers simply growled at his intrusion. She sidled behind a secretary taking notes, hoping he hadn’t seen her.

 “The public will need reassurance,” the Mayor said. “Have the press spread some of that instead of their usual fear mongering. Contact whoever’s in charge of that excessive military force and tell them to help the police keep peace while you’re at it. Oh, and reschedule tomorrow’s game. Tracy wanted to tee off after lunch.”

The secretary took the notes and left, revealing the glaring Rhea. She made no move to close the gap between her and George’s head. The scene from her bedroom window that morning flashed through it, only this time she was the one in the armed circle where he couldn’t reach her. His voice, however, still could.

“Hey.” he said. “About back there. No need to bite my head off.”

Rhea’s glare intensified. George mentally prepared his cheeks for a slap, but she folded her arms and sneered instead.

“Mr. Travers, if you have any questions, a statement will be released as soon as we have information. Until then, why don’t you stay with your friends and keep your new girlfriend company, although from the sounds of it she seems to be doing quite well alone with your two other delinquents.”

Cat’s laugh cut through the background noise. Alfredo and Bobert had eased her.

“She would.” George said. “She’s the ringleader. Look, I came over to make sure you’re alright.”

“How touching.”

“And to tell you me and Holden are taking off.”

The sneer dropped. “You what?”

“We’re gonna hit a bar or grab a couple of six packs and crash at mine. He doesn’t need to be here right now.”

“Are you joking? You’re not old enough to drink. And you can’t abandon your posts at a time like this. Use your head.”

“I am. I’m thinking I need to take care of my buddy.”

“We’re in the middle of a potential crisis and you want to go traipsing off to get soused with your friends? Do you have any idea how that’ll look to my dad?”

He eyeballed the pastor, the back of whose head was in deep discussion with O’Toole.

“I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“You can’t take a division leader off duty just like that! What if we need you?”

“The delinquents know what to do.”

“And me? I need you here! I need… No, you know what, George? I don’t need you. I don’t need any of this. For crying out loud, I never thought you’d be this irresponsible.”

George’s head cocked. “Irresponsible? This is literally the most responsible I’ve ever been!”

“You’re illegally going to a bar in the middle of the day, in the middle of a freaking crisis, to mention leaving the woman you claim to love bearing a notably heavy midsection around people who insist on pressing in on it! How is that in anyway not irresponsible?”

Her hands were held to her front. The pose of a shy girl at first glance, a protective stance at second.

Of course. He nodded.

“Did you want to come with us?”

Rhea shook her head. “Come with? What am I now, an afterthought? Is that it? Now I’m damaged goods, you expect me to stay home playing housewife while you gallivant around with your friends and hit on other girls? Because if that’s the case, I’d rather be a single mother.”

Clearly he’d misread the situation, but then so had she. George dropped his smile.

“Actually, darling, we’ve been together a year and nine months,” he said. “And we haven’t even discussed the news you sprang on me out of the blue this morning. Considering that hasn’t been even close to nine months, your midsection isn’t what I’d call heavy nor noticeable. As for the nearest available girl, I didn’t invite her to use me as a makeshift comfort blanket. I was too busy worrying about my best friend who just watched the woman he spent an actual two years in love with die horribly, live from the other side of the world alone where he couldn’t reach her, with members of the press in the same fucking room with us! And I think we should probably get him out of here before they sus that him and Chloe were an item, and turn his grief into a goddamn circus.”

He should have stopped on the moral high ground, but as usual George Travers’ mouth didn’t get the message until it was too late.

“So yeah,” he said, mirroring Rhea’s sneer. “Next to all that you are an afterthought, and if this is the kind of compassion I can expect from you as a wife, house or other, I’ll settle for paying child maintenance and you can play the single mother role you’ve clearly already decided on!”

He withdrew from the press of bodies, much to the guards’ relief, and immediately regretted the tail end of his comeback. Inside the circle, Rhea’s eyes widened as she covered her mouth with her hand.

“Holden and Chloe.” she stammered. “I forgot…”

George made his way back to Holden, fists clenched hard. What he’d said would bite him in the ass. It always did. He considered going back to say sorry, but what was said was said, and George Travers had a debt to pay.

He dragged Holden back upstairs to the lobby. Engineers and technicians filled the room, blocking the path to both elevators and entrance while they waited for an all clear. He pulled Holden into the only other available unrestricted door, an as of yet unstocked gift shop with just one other exit.

The exit led to an electric tram in a squat, dimly lit tunnel. It was mounted at the top of a monorail descending diagonally into the earth. Unlike the lobby and gift store, painting and decorating hadn’t started there yet, leaving the bare concrete walls and floor bland and unprotected. Staring down the rail, George could make out a pinprick of light at its opposite end, pinpointing the base of the mountain.

“Is this running?” George said, tapping the tram.

“You should stay,” Holden said. “Stay with Rhea.”

“Nah, she’ll be fine. She can take care of herself.”

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps. But she does happen to be carrying a bit of a pressing, nigh vulnerable burden at the present.”

George scoffed. “Yeah, emphasis on the word bit. She’s not even showing. Besides, I saw your neighbors beat the shit out of an armored tank this morning just for denting a car. Now a power cut’s knocked everything out, how pissed you think they’re gonna be?”

“All the more reason to stay with your girlfriend.”

“She has an army watching her.”

“So did Chloe.”

George sighed.

“Look, if you think I should stay, I’ll stay. You’re a big boy and I’ll choose her over you every time.”

“Remind me to get you a friend of the year trophy next time I stop by.”

“But, if you think she’s well guarded and there’s even a hint of a spec of doubt that having a really, really bad day like today just might impair your judgement in the middle of what could potentially be a citywide catastrophe, then I think you might need a friend who actually gives a crap about how you’re coping.”

Holden stared at him. Neither man said anything for a long moment. Eventually he pointed to the side of the tunnel.

“I’m guessing that’s for maintenance.”

At the end of the platform was a flight of stone steps. They ran downslope alongside the monorail into darkness.

George whistled. “That’s a lot of steps.”

Holden took the first one. “I could use the walk.”

He marched down without waiting for an answer and George tromped after, eyeballing the uncountable treads and recalling exactly why they’d built express elevators to the mountain top in the first place.

The tunnel had no lighting so they used their phones. The air grew stagnant the further they descended and after ten minutes, just over halfway down, any semblance of maintenance had been abandoned. Damp had claimed the cracked concrete and spoiled the air, souring it with mildew.

“What do you think they’ll do with the place?” George said.

“Renovate it? Our station’s mostly for workers. Visitors and sightseers come up the mountain by tram. They’ll have more museum pieces to line these steps for passengers to look at, probably voiced over for edutainment.”

It was hard to keep track of each other in the dark. George’s battery hadn’t been charged since the previous day and the trek was long and uneventful with nothing to do but take each double-heighted step as it came. Over twenty minutes passed before they neared the bottom. Thanks to the angle of the stairs, their legs would feel it in the morning.

When they reached the end, the mid-morning light stung their eyes. Holden walked on in an introverted daze while George swore and clawed at his eyelids.

The tram’s lower platform was carved into the base of the mountain itself, decorated in fifties chrome and teal. The well preserved art deco and wrought iron supports held up a glass ceiling, polished on the interior yet blackened by decades of dirt and mold and gull shit outside.

A large sign informed them the station was closed for renovations. Holden nodded at the coastal road across the parking lot.

“I guess we keep walking.”

They followed the cliff road to East Bridge. The sidewalk was below the road on the same level as the train tracks. One train sat half in, half out of its cliff face tunnel while the cars above were jammed bumper to bumper along the quarter mile span. Neither man said a word as they crossed to the city. Holden stayed in his daze while George entertained the idea that the whole morning had just been a vivid, if disturbing dream.

When they reached the Island, cops were in a standoff with commuters and a driver who’d abandoned his bus behind two cars crashed in its path. The car drivers were okay, but engaged in hostile negotiations behind the accident where the cops couldn’t see them. The phone networks were down as well and it seemed this was what most people were angriest with.

The neighborhoods beyond were filled with screams and more overwhelmed officers. Radios blared with reports of looting, forcing George to steer Holden down side streets and cut through less chaotic paths to his apartment. It took two hours, but they managed to reach home safely.

…

Home was a scene George had spent two years keeping Rhea from seeing. Or smelling. Wafts of burped beer and stale smoke, and odors George refused to dwell on, assaulted their nostrils as they approached his door. It was almost enough to make them reconsider where to crash, but a burst of nearby gunfire made the outside the lesser of two evils and they hurried through, locking the door behind them. 

The open plan interior was a shrine to one man’s lifestyle, a sea of empty cans on a threadbare carpet, interspersed with empty takeout boxes and cigarette stubbs. George ignored the one man in question, who lay splayed out cold on a sagging sofa in a rotting wifebeater, creating a tableaux the overall hue of urine.

“Your dad’s looking well as ever.” Holden said.

They went to George’s room. Holden took his usual spot on the coach. George plugged in his dead phone and grabbed what few beers his dad had missed. Power had returned during their walk and they slumped in front of the TV, watching panelists argue whether Chloe’s nuclear warning was legitimate or hysteria. Holden switched it off and downed his beers with a yawn between each gulp. The long half day was catching up and within minutes he was snoring.

George followed his example.

…

A sharp pain in his shoulder woke George an hour before his alarm would have. At some point in a fitful, nightmare-fueled sleep, Holden had claimed the entire sofa for himself and George had slithered to the floor rather than attempt the three step journey to his bed. Without a pillow, his shoulder had taken the burden of supporting his head all night and as he sat up, the muscle twinged hard.

He winced and rubbed the joint, distracting himself with the following dawn’s TV. To add to the pain, he felt far from refreshed, even after such a long sleep. George resolved to call Rhea to make sense of yesterday’s chaos, but less than a cartoon and a half into his new day another strange event cropped up, this time taking the form of an old man hijacking the airwaves.

“Good day, ladies and gentlemen.” The old man said. “My name is James Kinsley. The date is July the eighteenth and I have a special announcement to make.

This morning, you will have received a small black envelope containing a very special gift; a credit card issued by my Foundation giving you access to one hundred Kinsley-Coins, our personal cryptocurrency, the total valued in excess of twenty thousand US dollars, or seventeen thousand Euros. That’s per person.

In addition, because you deserve a break from the daily grind, amenities like those pesky taxes are now free. And don’t worry about any outstanding bills, we’ve taken care of those, too. My gifts to you.

Oh, and one small but important detail, please attend carefully. There is a small stick of what appears to be chewing gum taped into the card, labeled Repose. Please do not eat it. It is quite toxic to ingest, but do keep it about you at all times. You’ll thank me if you do.

For further details and estimates in your local currency, visit Kinsley Foundation dot com and follow the links.

Please have yourselves a very good day. This message will repeat in one hour.”

George frowned at the TV.

“Free money?” he said to the screen. “You having a laugh?”

“Oh, he’s real.” a voice said from his door. “I just got a text from my credit companies. My debts have been paid.”

George’s sister barged in and showed him a black envelope with Wendy J Travers emblazoned across it in gold. She handed him one of his own and wrinkled her nose at Holden, who’d burrowed into George’s dirty clothes as a blanket and slept with one hand down his pants.

“Rhea called last night,” she said. “Crying. Do you know why she was crying?”

George looked up. “Aw, shit. My phone died. I should call her back.”

“No, you should have stayed with her. Are you going to?”

“Did she tell you everything? Maybe if she—”

Wendy pinched his lips shut.

“How about you go see her now and apologize? Don’t pull a dad.”

George pushed her hand away. “Don’t ever compare me to him.”

“Don’t do as dad does then. I love you both to bits, but I don’t need a second overweight man-baby drinking himself to death under my roof.”

George stood. “Technically it’s the landlord’s roof. And besides, I pay the bills under it. And unlike him, I actually have a job, and that job keeps me fit.”

“And I have to put up with the sweaty laundry and act like your mother, which I don’t want to be yet. So to help me keep at least a semblance of maternal instincts intact for my own offspring one day, I need to see at least one if you grow up. And I have a sneaking suspicion dad’s too set in his ways.”

He pointed behind her. “Speak of the devil.”

A staggering shadow heralded the arrival of Zeke Travers, who waddled into view brandishing a credit card of his own. He didn’t say good morning, just held it up and beamed through an unkempt beard and what was left of his teeth.

“Hey, hey! Looks like I struck it lucky lazded night.” he said. “Swew yaz kids laters, Imma at fa bar.”

“It’s still morning!” Wendy called after him. “And don’t you think you should get changed first? You’ve been wearing those clothes over a week!”

Zeke didn’t answer, just gave her a grin, gave George a fart, and left the house.

Holden woke with the fart.

Wendy banged her head on George’s sore shoulder and got a moan in response.

“I know, it stinks.” She said. “Look, I have to go to work. Just promise me you’ll fix this. Make me proud of at least one man in this family, okay?”

George pushed her off. “Fine, I’ll talk to her.”

“And get rid of that while you’re at it.” She said, pointing at the half woken Holden scratching his armpits. “He looks like a greasy monkey.”

“You mean grease monkey.”

“No.” She affectionately punched him in the same shoulder and left. George’s eyes welled.

As usual she had a point. At least one Travers ought to be worth being, even if he had to make up what a worthwhile Travers was as he went along.

“Your sister really cares about you.” Holden said, opening a beer. “Must be nice to have a family you can rely on. And speaking of which, how’s my trusted second in command?”

“Family member, not family.” George said. “The rest can go screw themselves. And your second in command is actually feeling pretty lousy, and not at all suspicious of anyone calling me their trusted anything.”

“Well, you are. You got into Cheppard’s good books yesterday, and O’Toole’s. And effort needs recognition, so what do you say to being my project manager?”

“I say it sounds like someone wants me to do their job.”

Holden bowed his head. “George, I can’t do it today. I just can’t. I have to be there, but as a personal favor, please just take care of the actual business for me?”

“Is that legal at my age? Fine, but drinks are on you tonight.”

“Actually, drinks are on the city. Cheppard told the Mayor about the window damage across from his house and got O’Toole to convince her to upgrade the building to triple glazing. Just set up scaffold and patch up that apartment that got ransacked. Plus you’ll be right across from Rhea’s, leading a team, which by all accounts would look impressive to a certain special someone’s easily unimpressed father, hint, hint. Makes you look like a responsible man who can provide for a growing family, get it? Hint, hint?”

“Didn’t think relationships were a subject to bring up around you today.”

Holden opened a second beer. “You don’t get many chances at life, so take it where you can. Besides, you had my back yesterday, so sue me if I got yours.”

George sighed. “Fine, but at least scrub up.”

He left Holden to shower and put the borrowed clothes though the wash and dryer, then searched his closet for a decently respectable outfit. His only options were a pair of untorn jeans and the last shirt he had that didn’t smell, but an almost matching pair of socks completed the look and he admired the smartly dressed man grinning back from the mirror. Rhea would see what a good man he could be.

…

Rhea wasn’t home and her phone was off. That or she’d blocked him. George and Holden waited outside the damaged apartment block, pacing circles round each other while they waited for O’Toole and the crew. George muttered, revising exactly what he wanted to say while he wore a groove in the now cleared sidewalk. All signs of the shootout had been swept away and only the cracked asphalt showed any sign of disturbance.

O’Toole arrived in the company truck. The shredded road rattled its rust off and the metal pipes and couplings, and metal everything else, jangled at deafening decibels in the back.

Cat, Alfredo and Bobert hopped off as soon as it was parked, clutching their ringing ears.

“Morning.” Holden said, pulling out a beer stashed in his tool belt.

O’Toole leaned over from the driver’s side and shook his cane at it.

“Look, lad. No man ought ever to have seen what you did yesterday, but drink on the job ain’t the best way to keep your new business afloat.”

“What, this?” Holden said, raising the can overhead. “This is a celebratory toast. To my new company. Cheers, everyone.”

“Get in here. We need to talk.”

O’Toole hooked his cane into Holden’s collar and yanked him over to the truck. He got in and ignored the old man shouting in his face.

“Alrighty, guys and gal. “George said. “I’m team leader today so if you need anything, come to me. For now, we’re setting scaffold.”

“Ooh,” Cat cooed. “I like a man who takes charge.”

Bobert raised a hand. “You’re not going to be one of those bosses, are you? O’toole’s bad enough.”

“Yeah,” Alfredo said. “We don’t need another resident evil.”

George shrugged. “No, I’m the kind of boss that says as long as the job’s finished on time and it holds up to investigation, then do whatever.”

They got to work. George and the boys fetched poles from the truck, piling them in neat lines at the side of the building while Cat cordoned off the work area. Other construction students arrived a half hour later and George assigned Bobert, Alfredo and Cat to lead their own, smaller teams.

Once started, they fell into their routine, assembling the scaffold floor by floor. George checked everything multiple times, glancing down to see if the old man or Holden were scrutinizing his work or if Rhea had made an appearance, but neither happened and his class was done by late afternoon. With no further orders coming, George dismissed the rest of the class and took his original team upstairs. 

His team.

While they waited for an inspection to certify the scaffold, they surveyed the Yao family’s apartment for damage. It was mostly cosmetic, nothing a slap of spackle and a fresh coat of paint couldn’t fix. The only real work were the windows, so they cleared the glass first and removed the shot frames from the walls.

Job done, George gave his team the remainder of the afternoon off. After all, if they could get paid to do nothing for the last hour and a whole extra day just to dab some plaster and paint on, why not?

He checked off a to-do list and ranked his team’s performance. They’d worked well, and he took the liberty of filling in his own review, saving poor distracted Holden the time and hassle. Cat laughed at his self “rekamend’d” raise and corrected his spelling.

“Stick to your strengths, big man, ‘cos it certainly ain’t admin.” She said, and tossed him a coke. “Come raid the fridge. Don’t reckon these guys’ll mind since we’re fixing the house for ‘em.”

George took the drink and crossed out his recommendation. A nosey in the fridge uncovered a week’s groceries, fresh the day before, but soon to go to waste. He made a mental note to find out if the Yaos would be back to claim it soon, or if he should loot the food later.

“Hey, you get one of those credit cards?” Bobert asked him.  “Think they’re real?”

George tapped his pocket. “I’m not getting my hopes up.”

“I am.” Cat said. “Could get my own place, wouldn’t have to live …with him.”

She stepped through the windowless frame and out onto the scaffolding, leaning on the safety rail with a sigh.

“I’d love a place with this view.” 

George followed her out. The view was an alleyway between Rhea’s house and her dad’s chapel. It was filled fighting cats and overturned trash cans.

Cat pinched his chin and tilted his head left, turning his gaze towards the sea. Framed between the building they were in and the spires of the chapel was a clear horizon.

“These people have no idea how lucky they are.” Cat said. “Just stick your head out the window and there’s the best view in the world. The whole fucking ocean.”

George smiled. How many times had he and Rhea done just that? He glanced down at her window across the street.

Rhea was staring out and he whistled to get her attention. She didn’t hear him through the closed panes.

Cat nudged him. “Hey, I’m having a moment here. Forget your girlfriend for five minutes.”

Rhea withdrew from view and George sighed.

“Sorry.”

“Look, the moon’s out. How many times do you see the moon over the sea during the day? It’s so romantic.”

George grunted an agreement.

Alfredo and Bobert joined them, handed them another drink and gulped down theirs, watching as the waves rolled over each other just a half minute walk away. They savored the breeze after hauling steel and fastening it together most of the day. Having paid respite with free drinks just added to the flavor.

“Oi!” O’Toole’s voice cut through the mood. “Get your bums down here!”

They groaned a collective groan.

“Well that was a relaxing five minutes.” Bobert said.

He jumped off the side of the building and grabbed the scaffold mid leap, landing on the platform below. Then repeated. Alfredo followed. Cat and George watched the two tumble and twist down the poles from the top floor to ground level. They landed in synchronized rolls in front of O’Toole in just a few seconds.

“You two are an insurance nightmare!” he screamed.

“Parkour is an art form.” Alfredo said. “A way of life, a philosophy of flowing from one position to another, much like river with its calm bends and intermittent rapids.”

“Or Jenga” Bobert said.

George and Cat took the elevator.

Back on the street, O’Toole paced in front of the truck, muttering about losing time and damn tardy women. George caught the odd gruff word under his breath, from port hole to carnal layers to “she ain’t immoral, you daft bugger.”

“What are you talking about?” George said.

O’Toole quit pacing and stared blankly at him. It took a moment before recognition reached his eyes.

“Oh, Georgie lad. Thought you was ‘a mayor.”

“She supposed to be here?”

“Yes, yes, she’s coming to congratulate you lot. Passing the torch on, all that malarkey. Ask Crayson.”

He restarted his pace, muttering in quieter tones, stopping every few seconds to glance at Cheppard’s door. The pastor himself stepped out with the mayor and two security men. One held the door for them while the other spoke into a sleeve. Cheppard and the mayor laughed and talked as if her men weren’t there.

“Ah, there’s the lovely lady herself.” O’Toole said with a grin. “Come to bless me with some of her time n’ company.”

Rhea appeared at her door, watching George through raw, reddened eyes. Even from across the street he could see her shake, but before he could make a move, she retreated back in and locked the door behind her.

O’Toole pushed past George to link arms with the mayor. To everyone’s disgust, she pulled the old man in for a kiss. A wet one. Alfredo and Bobert gagged until Cat elbowed them into at least pretending to behave. The mayor had O’Toole pressed into the side of the truck and didn’t pull away until their lips turned blue. They then shut their eyes and pressed foreheads.

“There’s only one seat.” O’Toole said. “As my wife, you’re entitled to it if I decline.”

“Thank you so much.” The mayor said, and kissed him again. She turned to the Cheppard. “And thank you for marrying us on such short notice.”

The pastor simply nodded with a smile.

O’Toole squeezed the mayor’s hand with his left and pointed to Holden with his right. “A’right, let’s get this over with. Y’all see Mr. Crayson ‘ere?”

Holden steadied himself and waved to the crowd.

“Good. Well he’s your boss now. O’Toole Construction belongs to him, so I guess it’ll be Crayson Construction from now on.”

“I’ll keep it O’Toole.” Holden said. “It’s an established name.”

O’Toole grunted and held up a glass spanner. It glinted with subtle  iridescence and scattered rainbows across his face. Holden grabbed it as well and they posed as Cheppard took a photo for the company album. When he was satisfied with the shot, he handed the camera to George.

“So that’s my torch passed to young Mr. Crayson here.” O’Toole said, letting go. “Me and me missus are off to retire. Y’all take care of yourselves good, you hear me?”

A white limo pulled up behind them and O’Toole, the Mayor and her goons climbed in. It sped off as soon as the doors closed, without giving anyone the chance to say goodbye.

“What was all that about?” Cat said.

“What that was about, young lady,” Cheppard said. “Is two enthusiastic souls, very much in love, being joined in the bond of holy matrimony. May god speed them on their new life together.”

Cheppard shook Holden by the ceremonial spanner and congratulated him on his new business, then left to prepare a sermon. Holden’s crew stood dumfounded, the silence broken only by the caw of seagulls and the now noticeable sounds of the truck radio.

“So what’s next, boss?” George said.

“Next?” Holden said. “I’m going to sit in my new company’s old truck and get drunk…er.”

Cat nudged Alfredo and Bobert to the back of the truck to look for the spackle and paint. George leaned into the drivers cab and took the keys from the ignition.

“Go home.” He said. “Get drunk somewhere you’re safe to pass out in.”

Holden ignored him and turned the radio up.

“The orphans, the smart ones,” it said. “They’ve taken them and they’re saving the smart ones! And they’d only do that if something big is coming, something really bad.

Why else give us money, then, huh? They’re tryingto make the end seem less scary, stopping panic?

That Repose! You know what the word repose means? You can’t–

Holden lowered the volume with the toy spanner. He handed it to George. It was just a paperweight.

“George, why do I feel like I just got handed a plate of crap instead of a new business?”

“O’Toole was being weird.” George said. “All the shit the last few days has been weird. It’s creepy.”

“Shit’s dropping all around us.”

A seagull flew overhead and emphasized Holden’s words. Its white glob splattered across his sleeve and he glared up as it flew across the promenade to land on a tank.

George fished a rag from his belt and handed it. “I got a bad feeling about all this. First it’s guns and abductions, then Chloe and now we have tanks running all over the place.”

Holden wiped the bird poo. “I just want to know what the hell’s going on.”

Chloe’s name caught their ears and Holden turned up the dial.

“…and her live broadcast ended at precisely the same time as the power shutdowns.”

“That was no coincidence, gentlemen. All nuclear power stations went down, as did the rest of the world’s known nuclear stock. Coal, solar, wind, all other power sources remained fully functional.”

“Everything radioactive became inert simultaneously across the globe.”

“That’s right! We’ve stores of uranium stockpiled that cost billions to mine, now just sitting there, worthless! Turned to lead. What are we going to do with a million tons of dead rock?”

 “I believe that was an unintended side effect. Whoever or whatever did this reacted to those pyramids’ impending explosion. Somebody neutralized all radioactive material in the world in that split second. I believe removing those pyramids as a threat was the real intent.”

“So they’re no longer a danger?”

“No, but neither are our nuclear deterrents!”

“This sounds less like a power play and more like a corporate decision. Maybe some kind of science institute—”

“This is what I keep telling you people! We need less science and more faith! You ever see the church cause any mass atrocities?”

“Did he actually just say that?”

“You can’t just turn uranium into lead! It’s not possible! What’s next, lead into gold?”

 Holden yawned. He needed a proper rest and no more bad news, nothing to incite the nightmares. He shut his eyes and snored gently in his seat, too drunk and depressed to stay awake. George leaned in and switched the radio off, just as the presenter said. “…we’re just thankful Chloe Heralds is still alive!”

He took exactly two steps away from the truck before those words sunk in.

“What did you say?” he shouted.

He leaned in and turned the radio back on.

“…on a stretcher where a team of paramedics hoisted her into a chopper last night.”

 George’s eye widened and he turned to wake his friend, but a familiar ringtone called from his pocket. He hesitated, then answered.

“George.” Rhea said. “I’m sorry about earlier. We should talk. Can you come over?”

George shook his head. “Hey, sure. But no. Look, I just need to think for a minute. It’s important.”

“I know it’s important. A baby’s life changing, but—”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll call you later.”

He hung up and phoned Holden.

“Chloe’s alive!” he screamed down the line. “She’s on the news!”

Holden gave his phone a puzzled look. “You do know I’m sitting right next to you, right?”

George hung up. “Chloe’s alive.”

“What? Wait, huh?” Holden said. He sat up fast, eyes fully open. “How? She got bukakked by a nuclear bomb.”

George pointed at the radio.

“The man just said! A helicopter picked her up. The nuke didn’t go off!”

“Hey, did I hear that right?” Cat said, appearing at Holden’s window. “Weather girl’s alive? She’s your one that got away, right?”

Holden nodded and turned the volume to max.

“… arrived home this morning. She’s in a private suite at Shipyard City Hospital, with James Kinsley himself pledging to pay…”

“This morning? Today?” Cat said. She dragged Holden out and aimed him at the Promenade. “Boss man, you need to go see her. Call the mayor to get you in, use O’Toole as leverage. Give her a welcome home she’ll never forget. Get a suit. Look like a man who owns a successful company, something fancy. Look good for her. Make her think “Ooh, there’s a man worth surviving a nuclear bomb for.” And bring some flowers. C’mon, this is your second chance! Make Chloe your priority. George can watch us. What are you waiting for?”

Holden objected but she cut him off, citing articles and blogs and whatever else she could to keep him from thinking too hard. When he was safely pointed at the beachfront stores, she came back to George grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Men.” She said. “What’d y’all do without us?”

She punched him in the shoulder.

“Ow! Would people stop doing that?” he yelled.

“Sorry?”

“S’okay, shoulder’s just a little sore.”

She sidled up and traced a finger across the muscle.

“It’s a little stiff. Maybe we should go back to yours and get it under a cold shower.”

George’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you so interested in getting Holden back with Chloe?”

“I was actually more interested in getting him out the way.”

She pushed George onto the road and forced him to squat with his back to her. She sat on the sidewalk behind him and pulled his top over his head. George winced at the pain, but as her fingers press into his flesh, the knot stopped throbbing. Within minutes his shoulder had physically loosened.

 “You should deal with strains straight away.” She said.” It’s nice to see a guy stay in shape, but you shouldn’t overdo it.”

George shook his head. “Just tense ‘cos of the last few days. Personal problems kinda put me in a mood.”

His eyes widened as she leaned in to whisper in his ear and her breasts pressed into the back of his neck.

“I can think of other ways to improve a mood.”

George shrugged her off. “Catherine. I’m with Rhea.”

“I thought you guys split up?”

“We’re just going through a rough patch. Maybe. I don’t want you thinking I’m interested in you.”

Cat shoved him forward, then stood and marched off. Alfredo and Bobert watched from the back of the truck.

“Aww, c’mon that didn’t come out right.” George called after her.

She shook her head and pointed across the street.

“You might wanna let her know what you told me.”

Rhea was stood at her door, arms folded and purple faced. A cold shiver reminded him his skin was bare and he burrowed back into his top while Cat fled across the street to the beach. Alfredo and Bobert took the opportunity to escape the upcoming tension and followed her. George crossed over to Rhea, flustered and adjusting the hoodie he’d slipped into backwards.

“You didn’t want to talk so I’ve decided what to tell my doctor at our appointment.” Rhea said without any greeting. “It’s an hour after your shift ends. You’re coming. Don’t argue.”

George got his arms in the correct sleeve.

“What decision?”

“Termination. I’m having an abortion, George. I don’t want to, but I can’t look after a baby alone. I’m not ready. We’re not ready.”

George raised his hands. “Look, I don’t know if I’m ready to be a dad or not, but I do know you and killing an unborn baby ain’t you at all.”

“Neither is being a single mother.”

“Hey, don’t I get a say in this?”

“You already did. I trapped you, remember?”

“So we had a fight. Big deal. You sprung some bad news on me at a bad time. I didn’t know how to react.”

“But you’ve had time to think about it since then, and you keep letting me find you with miss muffin tops. It’s been a real eye opener.”

“Hey, I just told her I wasn’t interested. Babe, I’m gonna do right by you. Marriage, commitment, everything.”

She walked down the two steps from her door and pointed to her belly. Then slapped him.

“You think this is an obligation? Some bad news you need to cope with? You think I need a husband to make me happy?”

He backed away from striking distance.

“I did ’til you used your scary voice.”

“I don’t want a husband who does a duty, George. I want to be with the man I fell in love with. But apparently he doesn’t exist. You actually had me fooled, covering me from those bullets yesterday, but as soon as the work gets harder, less glorified, you’re not there—”

“Hey, that’s not fair.”

“No, you’re right, it isn’t. But you showed me a side of you I’m glad I found about before this went any further. So I’m booking this murder, and you’re going to be there to see it. Then after that, we’ll go our separate ways and neither of us has to see each other ever again.”

She turned before he could respond and slammed the door behind her. George rubbed his cheek and groaned.

“Tell me that was the hormones talking.”

The day was getting weirder, and it wasn’t over yet.