Read Online 72 Hours till Doomsday by Melani Schweder - Free Book Online

1. March 6, 2017. 9:22 A.M. London, England.
    The central waterways office was filled with an ominous quiet that Monday morning. Every employee had yet to begin work; instead, they all leaned against the stained blue cubicle dividers, eyes glued to the television mounted on the wall, and although Gregor was a particularly diligent man, he couldn’t resist getting swept into the gathering.
    You could almost smell the terror hanging in the stagnant air as the news reports ticked along the screen, like someone was reading off a prison sentence. Every word that emerged was a fang, all strung together into sharp and biting sentences, sinking deeper into the beating hearts of the men and women of the Battersea Water and Power.
    “Gregor, hey.”
    It was a familiar face, the deeply lined one belonging to his best friend Arthur. A steady hand landed on his shoulder with more weight than usual.
    “Hey.”
    “How are you holding up?”
    “Oh, I’m okay. Did I tell you that Alice lost her job?” Arthur nodded, and Gregor continued. “Yeah, they closed the school on Friday. I’m just not sure what to make of all this, you know? I think everyone might just be overreacting.”
    “I don’t know, G. In all my fifty-three years, I’ve never seen things this bad. Some may say it’s rubbish, but I’m starting to believe otherwise. Three more countries declared financial ruin just this morning.”
    “What about us?”
    “The minister keeps saying we’re fine, that the markets are just adjusting. But if you’ll notice, the BBC is only showing half the story.”
    “Like those two banker suicides last week?”
    “Right. They’re not talking about that. Or the riots over in Chelsea. Conveniently ignoring those.”
    “Yah. I just hope this will all blow over.”
    “Me too, G,” he let out a heavy sigh, “I just have a funny feeling that it won’t.”
    Their eyes had glazed over, empty stares of men whose minds were too busy predicting the future to absorb the present. The screen was repeating the same cell phone video footage captured at the Hyde Park riots, the same frightened faces popping in and out of the frame, their yells like a skipping soundtrack.
    “Okay, everybody, let’s get to work please,” came a brusque declaration from their manager.
    Some people shuffled slowly to their cubicles, their feet stuck in an invisible syrup. The entire office had already been infected. It was too late. Every soul was too distracted to accomplish much that day; they were much too busy texting loved ones underneath their desks, rearranging their files trying to look busy, planning their escapes in one form or another.
    Gregor hung his head, no different from the rest.
     
     

2. March 6, 2017. 3:38 P.M. Istanbul, Turkey.
     
    The meeting had gone much worse than planned. Three investors had pulled out, and one had been absent due to a hostage situation in Damascus. The imported beer and catered lunch had done nothing to ease the tensions in the men’s minds, their fists held tightly, their brows furrowed. The future of Altan’s company was not looking good, and every person in his office could feel it. It was like the expansive glass windows were clouding over, the leather sofas threatened to swallow them whole, and every bottle of fine filtered water contained a poison more deadly than they could imagine. This tenuous life of luxury was starting to feel like a prison.
    “Eda, call my wife. Tell her I’m coming home early.”
    “Yes sir.”
    The sandstone facade of his home was glowing beautifully in the fading light, but he was far too preoccupied to enjoy it. The turquoise tiles threw tiny tinted reflections at him, some caught in the palm trees, some littered the walkway. His wife was a vision between the teak double doors, her white linen dress blowing in the breeze, her fingers playing nervously with the iron detailing. Little did he know, there weren’t many of these sunsets left.
    “Altan!” she called, her bare