Read Online From the Fire by Kent David Kelly - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kent David Kelly
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may find you. And for my part, be it known that this work is dedicated with all my heart to Paul and our one surviving son, Gabriel. I love you both more than life. May you find these words of the Illumined Ones comforting as we approach our own darkest hour.
~
In Humility,
—Alexandria S.-G.C.,
Professor Emeritus of Holocaust Studies,
Tasmania, UTAS
iii.17-2319
I-2
ZERO DAY
(Four-Four-Fourteen)
Sophie gritted her teeth as the NPR daily Shelter Event Report segued into a BBC World Service recording. “Christine Collins re- por -ting,” began the reel. Very British. Static hissed as the satellite signal bounced along the Rocky Mountains. Sophie clutched the Hummer’s steering wheel a little tighter.
“… for BBC World Ser -vice. As tensions escalate all a- long the Persian Gulf following the sinking of tanker Burmah Endeavour by discredited Iranian splint -er forces, the Shelter Panic continues. More conflicting reports are coming in to us from Russia , and from sources quite beyond the Steel Line of the Vol -ga. Entire cities, certainly including Volgograd and Orenburg, and — depending upon con- flict -ing satellite imagery declassifications — perhaps even as far east as Tomsk and Novosibirsk, are being to -tally evacuated. We know that the Shelter Panic is becoming contagious , something of a social and Internet -contracted hysteria, as Russian citizens con- tin -ue to secretly report via uploads to Youtube and social media from behind the Line.”
“Elsewhere in Europe, Vienna has been partially evacuated, Monaco is in chaos, and riots in Zurich continue for a third night tonight. Meanwhile, tragedy in Versailles as French police come to blows and then trade gunfire with self-termed survivalists digging alleged shel -ters for their families in the forest behind the Palace of Versailles, an event which has led Président de la République Giraud …”
Keep it out , thought Sophie. She massaged her forehead. Keep it all out. I can’t take it anymore.
She lifted a recycled-paper coffee cup out of the center console, took a sip of her cooling latte. The wipers of the Hummer H4 pulsed back and forth, purring and glimmering with sunset and the fitful springtime rain. Humming an off-key tune to herself to cloud away the BBC report, she slid her latte cup back into place, then pulled her iPhone 6GS out of its door-handle socket. The world news report droned on.
Can’t take it anymore. Don’t let me think , don’t feel , don’t—
Sighing, she texted to Jolynn up in Centennial, something trivial about the sheet sale at Park Meadows Mall. The more vapid the better. Be a bitch if it clouds it out, pretend you’re not a social scientist. Not a mother. Not an NSA widow. Lacie is fine. Tom is fine. Don’t think , don’t feel , don’t …
She frowned as her cell phone auto-corrected ‘Frette’ linens to ‘Friday.’ It was only her glance up at the corrector bubble on the iPhone’s crystal face that caused her to see that she was drifting her Hummer straight into the Escalade in front of her. In two seconds or less, she would cause a low-speed collision.
She slammed on the brakes. The H4 screeched to a halt once more. The pickup driver behind her shouted a singled redneck-inflected word — “Lady!” and she started to giggle before she could stop herself. The balding man behind her was furious. He chewed on a cigar, patted the outside of his door with a rain-slicked hand. What kind of a fool would keep his windows down during an April rainstorm?
Sorry, tough guy. What can I say?
Blushing at her own careless behavior, Sophie gave a little wave to her rearview mirror. Behind her, the pickup driver straightened his cap, flicked his cigar butt against the US Highway 119 sign, and gave her a little wave of his own. More of a fist pump, actually. She laughed again and the man behind her smiled despite himself.
Looking forward, she could see that a traffic jam had jumbled itself
~
In Humility,
—Alexandria S.-G.C.,
Professor Emeritus of Holocaust Studies,
Tasmania, UTAS
iii.17-2319
I-2
ZERO DAY
(Four-Four-Fourteen)
Sophie gritted her teeth as the NPR daily Shelter Event Report segued into a BBC World Service recording. “Christine Collins re- por -ting,” began the reel. Very British. Static hissed as the satellite signal bounced along the Rocky Mountains. Sophie clutched the Hummer’s steering wheel a little tighter.
“… for BBC World Ser -vice. As tensions escalate all a- long the Persian Gulf following the sinking of tanker Burmah Endeavour by discredited Iranian splint -er forces, the Shelter Panic continues. More conflicting reports are coming in to us from Russia , and from sources quite beyond the Steel Line of the Vol -ga. Entire cities, certainly including Volgograd and Orenburg, and — depending upon con- flict -ing satellite imagery declassifications — perhaps even as far east as Tomsk and Novosibirsk, are being to -tally evacuated. We know that the Shelter Panic is becoming contagious , something of a social and Internet -contracted hysteria, as Russian citizens con- tin -ue to secretly report via uploads to Youtube and social media from behind the Line.”
“Elsewhere in Europe, Vienna has been partially evacuated, Monaco is in chaos, and riots in Zurich continue for a third night tonight. Meanwhile, tragedy in Versailles as French police come to blows and then trade gunfire with self-termed survivalists digging alleged shel -ters for their families in the forest behind the Palace of Versailles, an event which has led Président de la République Giraud …”
Keep it out , thought Sophie. She massaged her forehead. Keep it all out. I can’t take it anymore.
She lifted a recycled-paper coffee cup out of the center console, took a sip of her cooling latte. The wipers of the Hummer H4 pulsed back and forth, purring and glimmering with sunset and the fitful springtime rain. Humming an off-key tune to herself to cloud away the BBC report, she slid her latte cup back into place, then pulled her iPhone 6GS out of its door-handle socket. The world news report droned on.
Can’t take it anymore. Don’t let me think , don’t feel , don’t—
Sighing, she texted to Jolynn up in Centennial, something trivial about the sheet sale at Park Meadows Mall. The more vapid the better. Be a bitch if it clouds it out, pretend you’re not a social scientist. Not a mother. Not an NSA widow. Lacie is fine. Tom is fine. Don’t think , don’t feel , don’t …
She frowned as her cell phone auto-corrected ‘Frette’ linens to ‘Friday.’ It was only her glance up at the corrector bubble on the iPhone’s crystal face that caused her to see that she was drifting her Hummer straight into the Escalade in front of her. In two seconds or less, she would cause a low-speed collision.
She slammed on the brakes. The H4 screeched to a halt once more. The pickup driver behind her shouted a singled redneck-inflected word — “Lady!” and she started to giggle before she could stop herself. The balding man behind her was furious. He chewed on a cigar, patted the outside of his door with a rain-slicked hand. What kind of a fool would keep his windows down during an April rainstorm?
Sorry, tough guy. What can I say?
Blushing at her own careless behavior, Sophie gave a little wave to her rearview mirror. Behind her, the pickup driver straightened his cap, flicked his cigar butt against the US Highway 119 sign, and gave her a little wave of his own. More of a fist pump, actually. She laughed again and the man behind her smiled despite himself.
Looking forward, she could see that a traffic jam had jumbled itself
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