has not been confirmed.
Nuclear fallout and radiological contamination have deterred further investigation. The status of Washington D.C., at the time, is uncertain. Reports are mixed. I repeat, all residents in Central and Eastern Time zones are strongly advised to avoid any major landmarks or cities and find safe cover immediately."
A deep feeling of sickness came over Samantha. She moved to the window of the second floor and looked out to the city below. Word was spreading quickly. People weren't walking anymore, they were running. The congested roads turned into bedlam as commuters--who most likely heard the reports of the nuclear strikes--tried to best each other by driving on the sides of the road, sidewalks, and median.
Where was she to go? What was she to do? She then remembered the number she had in her pocket book, the number to a United States Senator. Clearly, he would have some answers in her time of need. What did she have to lose? She fished the card from her pocket book and dialed his number that he had written on the back while trying to control her frequent sobs. The line rang and rang, when suddenly she heard a voice at the end.
"Hello?" the voice said.
"Hi is this Senator Bryant?" Samantha asked.
"Yes it is, who am I speaking to?"
"Mr. Bryant, I'm Samantha Thompson, we meet briefly today at the technology expo. You had given me your card."
A silence came over the other line. Then he continued.
"Yes, Samantha. My goodness, are you okay?"
He was very direct in his line of questioning, as if had some awareness to what was happening.
"No, I'm afraid I'm not. I need help. I heard the news, I just. I think I'm going into shock. My family lives in Beech Creek, Pennsylvania. The nuclear attacks. What is happening?" The more Samantha spoke, the more her breathing became rapid and uncontrollable.
Senator Bryant took notice of her state.
"Samantha, are you still there? Listen, we have to take cover. Take a breath. Calm down. Just stay with me now, everything is going to be fine."
Samantha began to hyperventilate; her face grew pale to accompany her cold sweats. She gripped onto the phone to continue her conversation.
"I--think--I'm going--into--some--type--shock," she said.
"Tell me where you are and I'll send a car to come get you. I can keep you safe. I'm not going to lose you again."
Samantha looked back at the television. Several reporters sat around a news desk with stoic, horrified expressions on their faces. Samantha spoke back into the phone.
"Feeling--lightheaded."
"Where are you at?" Bryant demanded.
"At the Marriott." She stopped and tried to breathe in, but her throat tightened. Her air passage felt blocked. She wheezed into the phone, as if dying.
"The Marriott? The one by the Convention Center?" Bryant shouted.
"Yes..." Samantha managed to get through.
"What room?"
"Two thirty six," Samantha belted out. "No, wait, two thirty seven."
"Two thirty seven, got it. I'll send a car over for you immediately."
Just as Bryant finished his words, the power went out, and with that, the phone line. Samantha dropped the phone and fell to her bed clutching her sides. She couldn't breathe and with each restrictive gasp she grew more lightheaded. The horrific images on the television disappeared from sight in an instant. She hit her pillow softly, in the new silence of her room, then passed out.
Ten minutes later her door burst open revealing two burly men in beige suits. They stumbled in with haste and exhaustion. The first man had black sideburns and brandished a crowbar, while the other, displaying a trimmed flattop, followed.
"There she is!" sideburns exclaimed.
Samantha was out cold, lying face-first into her pillow. Sideburns turned her over and patted her face.
"Samantha," he said with a Bostonian accent. "Wake up, girl. Come on, come back to us."
"Who is this chick?" Flattop asked.
"I don't know but the Senator sure as shit wants us to bring her back."
Sideburns forewent
Nuclear fallout and radiological contamination have deterred further investigation. The status of Washington D.C., at the time, is uncertain. Reports are mixed. I repeat, all residents in Central and Eastern Time zones are strongly advised to avoid any major landmarks or cities and find safe cover immediately."
A deep feeling of sickness came over Samantha. She moved to the window of the second floor and looked out to the city below. Word was spreading quickly. People weren't walking anymore, they were running. The congested roads turned into bedlam as commuters--who most likely heard the reports of the nuclear strikes--tried to best each other by driving on the sides of the road, sidewalks, and median.
Where was she to go? What was she to do? She then remembered the number she had in her pocket book, the number to a United States Senator. Clearly, he would have some answers in her time of need. What did she have to lose? She fished the card from her pocket book and dialed his number that he had written on the back while trying to control her frequent sobs. The line rang and rang, when suddenly she heard a voice at the end.
"Hello?" the voice said.
"Hi is this Senator Bryant?" Samantha asked.
"Yes it is, who am I speaking to?"
"Mr. Bryant, I'm Samantha Thompson, we meet briefly today at the technology expo. You had given me your card."
A silence came over the other line. Then he continued.
"Yes, Samantha. My goodness, are you okay?"
He was very direct in his line of questioning, as if had some awareness to what was happening.
"No, I'm afraid I'm not. I need help. I heard the news, I just. I think I'm going into shock. My family lives in Beech Creek, Pennsylvania. The nuclear attacks. What is happening?" The more Samantha spoke, the more her breathing became rapid and uncontrollable.
Senator Bryant took notice of her state.
"Samantha, are you still there? Listen, we have to take cover. Take a breath. Calm down. Just stay with me now, everything is going to be fine."
Samantha began to hyperventilate; her face grew pale to accompany her cold sweats. She gripped onto the phone to continue her conversation.
"I--think--I'm going--into--some--type--shock," she said.
"Tell me where you are and I'll send a car to come get you. I can keep you safe. I'm not going to lose you again."
Samantha looked back at the television. Several reporters sat around a news desk with stoic, horrified expressions on their faces. Samantha spoke back into the phone.
"Feeling--lightheaded."
"Where are you at?" Bryant demanded.
"At the Marriott." She stopped and tried to breathe in, but her throat tightened. Her air passage felt blocked. She wheezed into the phone, as if dying.
"The Marriott? The one by the Convention Center?" Bryant shouted.
"Yes..." Samantha managed to get through.
"What room?"
"Two thirty six," Samantha belted out. "No, wait, two thirty seven."
"Two thirty seven, got it. I'll send a car over for you immediately."
Just as Bryant finished his words, the power went out, and with that, the phone line. Samantha dropped the phone and fell to her bed clutching her sides. She couldn't breathe and with each restrictive gasp she grew more lightheaded. The horrific images on the television disappeared from sight in an instant. She hit her pillow softly, in the new silence of her room, then passed out.
Ten minutes later her door burst open revealing two burly men in beige suits. They stumbled in with haste and exhaustion. The first man had black sideburns and brandished a crowbar, while the other, displaying a trimmed flattop, followed.
"There she is!" sideburns exclaimed.
Samantha was out cold, lying face-first into her pillow. Sideburns turned her over and patted her face.
"Samantha," he said with a Bostonian accent. "Wake up, girl. Come on, come back to us."
"Who is this chick?" Flattop asked.
"I don't know but the Senator sure as shit wants us to bring her back."
Sideburns forewent
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