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Well, if you're like me anxiously hoping your copy arrives today, you might need something to take your mind off it all. So I present the final fanfic, a 25-page epic that I submitted for a final project in my high school Writer's Craft course. I got a very good mark for it, too. Enjoy?
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January 23, 2078
Henry's Beach Bar, St. Lucy
11:45AM
Sitting in the small beachside bar, John Slater picked up the sweating glass of watered-down beer and had a sip. He looked across the small road to the beach on the otherside, where sunburned parents sat covered with greasy sunlotion and sand, watching their children frolic in the water and fill one another's bathing suits with sand. His view was suddenly obscured by a rusty, loud tourist bus which paused outside the bar to disgorge its cargo of sunseekers. The design of the bus was such that the exhaust pipe blasted the fumes directly into the restaurant, and John comfortably shifted his chair around to face the small television above the bar, where a sweaty server mindlessly wiped at the surface of the bar. Even though St. Lucy was fairly far out into the Caribbean, it already had its own television station, and the huge wireless antenna was capable of bringing in signals from around the globe.
The current show was from the United States. John looked on disinterestedly at the programming, which faded to a variety of commercials. The new Starlite from Jupiter Motor Corporation, boasted the ad, could go from zero to 60mph in 1.5 seconds, and boasted V8 engines and a push-button radio as standard. And all for the amazing bargain price of $149,999. John turned to the glass of beer for entertainment, and downed another gulp before returning his attention to the television. An commercial featuring dancing toothpaste tubes disappeared, and the familiar 'Globe News Service' logo appeared. John banged at the table, and the server, without breaking his wiping, reached up to turn up the volume.
'The fighting in Europe continues night and day as Commonwealth forces continue to battle the Baltic Federation. In another chapter of the deadly war, the United States has threatened it will begin to use tactical atomic bombs to support her troops for the upcoming invasion of Kazhakstan, if the Communists refuse to surrender. Good luck boys, and make all us back home proud...'
The newsreel dissolved back into commercials, and John sat back and mused, slowly turning the beer glass in his hand. The Great War had been raging for 4 years, as the countries of the world battled over the devastated terrain. He had been sent by the US War Department to negotiate for basing rights with the St. Lucy government. He had argued the move, what with his background as a scientist, but his superiors had said they were short staffed and at the moment he would have to do. Besides, they figured, anyone would be desperate to get away from the worries of the war after 4 long years. Behind him, the bus pulled away, and John turned to see the throngs of people splashing about in the water. The carefree attitude of these people never ceased to amaze him. Even though on the other side of the world, armies were blasting each other, people still thought nothing of taking a yearly vacation to the tropics.
A large black car pulled up outside the restaurant, which John recognized as being from the St. Lucy government. An officer in a pressed uniform, obviously in great discomfort from the heat, approached John, and announced that it was time for his survey of the airport. John pulled out a wad of money, threw some bills next to the empty beer glass and followed the officer down to the waiting car.
St. Lucy International Airport
3:45PM
With a loud screech the tyres of the passenger plane touched down on the hard surface of the runway. It slowly turned and made its way towards the passenger terminal. Almost immediately after another plane landed, and it too made its way to the terminal.
'As you can see, sir,' shouted the uniformed officer over the noise, 'our airport is capable of handling large amounts of air traffic.'
John partially lowered the binoculars and nodded.
'How many runways are there?'
'There are two, sir,' replied the officer, 'we have one long and one short. The long is among the largest in the Caribbean, and we can accept any type or size of aeroplane here.'
This was confirmed to John as we watched a brand new jet-powered Comet airliner land and taxi, engines whining, towards the terminal.
'Don't you get complaints about the jets from the residents? They're so much louder than the prop planes they must be used to...'
'Not at all sir, they view the planes a progress, and progress means a better life for their children.'
'If this war keeps up,' snapped John, 'there won't be any progress because we'll have bombed ourselves back to the dark ages...'
The officer merely stiffened and tried not to notice.
'Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?'
'Have you prepared those reports on hangar space yet?,' asked John, lowering the binoculars. The officer patted around his uniform, and not finding the reports, bowed quickly before marching hurriedly off across the apron to the terminal. John leaned against the railing of the observation tower. This was truly becoming another World War, as it seemed almost every little country was getting forced to take some sort of allegience. He looked over at the tourists, ludicrously over-dressed for the weather, getting off the aeroplanes and blinking in the sunlight. John closed his eyes and wished he could be as carefree as that. A cough behind him snapped him out of the daydream. He turned to see Fiona MacLeod, the public relations officer from the British Commonwealth to St. Lucy. She walked up beside John and leaned on the rail, looking out at the runway and the blue ocean beyond.
'It's so lovely, isn't it...' she quietly said in her Scottish accent. John was fighting his way out of her mane of thick red hair, which was blown by the wind directly into his face.
'I say,' he spluttered through a mouthful of locks, 'do you mind?'
'Some fellas might enjoy that, Mr. Slater!,' replied Fiona, turning to face him.
'Of course, who wouldn't?' John said, plucking strands of hair off his tongue.
The officer returned, and handed John a clipboard containing the airport's capacities. He also held out a manila envelope.
'What's this?,' asked John, taking it and ripping it open.
'I'm not sure, sir, it just came in on one of the planes...'
Inside the envelope was a memo from the vice-director of the War Department. John was to gather all the visiting officials along with representatives from the St. Lucy government to a meeting in two days to discuss the US's plans for resolving the war.
January 24, 2078
Henry's Beach Bar
2:45PM
'You really should try it, it is quite lovely,' said Fiona, toweling her hair dry. She and John sat in the beachside bar, and Fiona had just had a swim in the ocean.
'No time,' was John's only response.
'Oh, John,' scolded Fiona, 'ye musn't work yourself so hard. Ye can have a bit of fun!'
'Fiona,' said John, setting down his paperwork which sat in piles around the table, 'I have a job to do. I'm doing this for the good of my country, and now I have this meeting tomorrow night to worry about. I don't have time to waste.'
Fiona simply turned up her nose and went over to the bar to order yet another umbrella drink.
January 25, 2078
Henry's Beach Bar
6:53PM
Another memo arrived the next morning, and instructed John to have the meeting in the evening, so he and the other officials could watch the President's newscast to the world. The sun was dipping in the sky as they all gathered at the beachside bar. The owner was delighted with all the business this strange American had attracted, and hurried about refilling the buffet tables. John surveyed the crowd. Across the room chatting to Fiona was Ralph Winchester, a throughly replusive individual who ran a successful shipping business. He had made a lot of money undercontract to the US research and development company WestTek, and had built a reputation as dealing in some of the most advanced technology availible. He spotted the St Lucy defense secretary, James Harris, talking to a 'special guest', Captain Gene Farrell, skipper of the American submarine San Ramon. There seemed to be a fairly large proportion of people John didn't recognize, and he attributed this to the sumptuous banquet, which could be smelled all the way up on the main road. John raised his glass and tapped at it with his spoon. A few heads turned, but they soon resumed their conversations. Irritated, John tapped harder, and broke the glass. A silence fell upon the crowd, and all eyes were upon him.
'Thank you. To start I'd like to thank you all for coming out tonight, and showing in interest in our government's plan for ending this terrible conflict...'
Several glasses were raised. John pretended to check his watch.
'It's nearly time for the President's message, let's all go over to the television, shall we?'
The crowd shifted over to the bar, and the bartender reached up to switch it on. The presidental seal appeared on the screen. A deep voice announced the President of the United States, Paul Cole.
'Good evening. I, your President, come before you tonight to inform you what our ambassadors have informed the leaders of other nations approximately 5 hours ago. Less than a day ago, the United States used atomic weapons in support of our ground and air forces in the taking of a Soviet military base in Kazhakstan.'
Several awed gasps passed through the crowd as the President paused, removing his glasses.
'At this time,' he continued, 'we have had no response on behalf of the Soviet Union or her allies. It is our firm hope that this action has demonstrated our determination to win this war, and will with any luck perhaps start a new series of negotiations with our enemies. The Soviets have used similar weapons against us in previous battles, but always merely to intimidate. It is our sincere hope that by our use against an actual military target that...'
Suddenly the black and white image began to be filled with static, and in a few seconds it had disappeared completely. Confused looks moved around the crowd, and a message appeared 'St. Lucy Television Commission regrets that we have temporarily lost the signal. We apologize for any interruption of programming'. John reached up and tuned to a French station. More snow followed by the appearance of the same message. BBC London produced the same result.
'This is really odd,' muttered John, fiddling with the tuning knob, 'to lose all those signals at once.'
The knob finally landed on BBC Belfast, and an announcer was babbling frantically to the camera.
'...unconfirmed reports that Soviet forces are...,' static cut over the sound and the picture jumped, '...have been dropped, and the city is in flames. Similar reports from Nort...' the picture jumped even more violently, '...will attempt to remain on the air as long as possible. But as far was we can tell, full scale at...' the picture flared brightly, '...has taken place. We are los...' the picture suddenly vanished into snow, and the St. Lucy Television Commission's message appeared. John slowly stepped down from the bar, and turned to look at the crowd. Not a soul stirred in the eerie silence.
'Ermmm... let's not jump to any conclusions,' John ventured. Some of the women began sobbing. Ralph Winchester came forward.
'Take this,' he said, handing John a small box, 'this WestTek transistor radio can pick up signals from almost anywhere.
'Thanks,' replied John, and he began tuning the radio around. Everyone watched in tension anticipation as John searched the frequencies for a signal. Only a few were found, but they were too weak to be discernable. John continued turning the dial, and finally got a signal.
'...radio Dayton WCBL repeating that we have been hit by atomic attack. To those of you in shelters, do not attempt to leave them yet, and for those not in shelters, seek cover immediately and medical attention in case of burns or radiation poisoning. I'm not feeling too well myself but I will try to continue transmit as long as I can. There is no question that a world-wide nuclear war has broken out, all our transmissions from other areas have gone down. Although we have no confirmed reports of the extent of the damage, your reporter can only guess at the amount of devastation around the world. Repeat, worldwide nuclear war has occured, those in shelters do NOT attempt...'.
John clicked off the radio. The stony faced crowd stared at him. John simply stared at the floor, unsure of what to do. He turned to the Defense Secretary.
'How many people on St. Lucy own televisions or radios?'
'Almost everyone has a radio, and about 50% have televisions,' replied the Secretary. 'We're one of the most wealthy islands in the Caribbean, and the citizens enjoy a good quality of living.'
'Okay,' said John, 'that means that everyone who was watching television or listening to the radio tonight will have a fairly good idea of what's going on. Mr. Secretary, you come with me to your car, the rest of you, I would advise to return to your hotel rooms as soon as possible.
Highway 3, St. Lucy
10:45PM
The car raced down the highway towards the captial of St. Lucy, Redford Bay. John babbled into the car's radio to the Prime Minister.
'Your honour, we have to act quickly to avoid an island-wide panic. I need you to mobilize all your police and military forces. We need to keep the people calm and from harming one another. We have to start broadcasting a signal from the airport to the farthest range possible. Why? Because there are going to be a lot of lost airplanes out there, and we have to try and bring as many of them in safely as we can. Do the same at the seaport. I think that tomorrow we should prepare an address to the nation outlining our plans for dealing with this situation. Any use of motor vehicles except for official business is to be prohibited. We have to get a rationing program underway as soon as possible. No, your honour, not just for food, for everything. If we don't we'll run out of petrol. A full survey of the island's resources has to be done as well. Yes sir, that's right. I'll talk to you when I arrive. Over and out.'
John hung up the radio. The Secretary turned to him.
'Mr. Slater, why do we need to survey the island?'
'Because, Mr. Secretary, we are going to have to become self sufficient. We'll have to produce all our own food, petrol and construction supplies without any outside assistance. Because, I fear, there is no outside any more.'
Palm Club Hotel, St. Lucy
11:23PM
Fiona arrived at her hotel room, and had just time to sit upon the bed in a daze before the phone rang. Slowly she picked it up.
'Fiona? Fiona? Say something!'
It was John's voice.
'...what,' she slowly responded.
'I need you to go the airport, and get ready for all the planes we'll be directing in. Oh, and do try to calm the passengers waiting to leave down, we can't let the news spread any more than it already has.'
Fiona hung up the phone, and dragged herself up from the bed. She slowly made her way down to the lobby.
'Taxi, madam?,' asked the only driver waiting at the taxi rank. Fiona got in.
'Airport, please...'
'Very good, madam. Off home, are we?,' replied the cheerful driver.
January 26th, 2078
St. Lucy International Airport
5:58AM
'I don't care what you say, Pan Atlantic Airlines is not treating me like this!'
'Sir,' said Fiona with ever diminishing patience, 'we are unable to have any departures at this time.'
'What a load of nonsense!,' returned the furious passenger, 'I'm writing a letter to the chairman this very minute to complain!'
'Fine,' snapped Fiona, the last of her tolerance draining away, 'Go right ahead and write the nastiest bloody letter you can think of.'
The irate passenger was taken somewhat aback by this outburst, and stormed off.
'Excuse me, miss,' said a woman with several children, 'but why can't we leave? You certainly have been letting enough people arrive. There have been planes landing all night!'
'And how come,' chipped in another, 'none of the passengers from those flights has come through the arrivals area. Just what is going on?'
'I'm not at liberty to say,' Fiona replied, 'but I can assure you that a full statement explaining this will be made later this morning.'
'Well good,' said the mother, 'my children have been up all night and they'll be happy to get on their way home.'
Fiona nodded and turned to look out the large windows overlooking the apron. It was getting increasingly crowded with planes as more and more airliners were told of what happened and changed course to reach St. Lucy. The sun was well above the horizon. Fiona turned, and saw the large departures board, with all flights labeled 'DELAYED'. The clock read 7:13. It was nearly time for the address to the island John had given to the Prime Minister. As Fiona lowered her head, she caught sight of Defense Secretary Harris hurrying in from the entrance towards her. He got up on a luggage cart, and told Fiona to have the large television from the lounge brought in. With the aid of two porters, they struggled to drag the large set into the departure area. With the set in place, the Secretary turned to the crowd.
'Your attention, please..,' he called, and all eyes turned to face him. Silence.
'Thank you,' he said, 'Now, many of you must surely be wondering why you have been prevented from leaving St. Lucy, and why we are bringing in so many aeroplanes. Momentarily, the Prime Minister will be addressing the nation, and that address shall answer all your questions.'
He gestured to Fiona, who turned on the television. The Prime Minister appeared, seated in his office. He wore a grave look on his face, and it was a while before her began.
'People of St. Lucy. I come before you today with the gravest and most important news. Approximately 12 hours ago, countries invovled in the Great War started a nuclear exchange that has in all theory completely destroyed all the cities and people all around the world. From what little information we have, the extent of the destruction is apocalyptic. For those of you visiting the island or with relatives in other countries, it is my sad duty to inform you that they are in all likelihood, dead. For many of you, home no longer exists. However, with the assistance of the visiting foreign officials, we have determined that we were spared due to our size. St. Lucy is small, had at the time of the exchange no allegiance, and was therefore not a primary target for atomic attack. It has been estimated that due to our position in the ocean, we are relatively safe from contamination by fallout and radiation. However, precautions must still be made. Do not drink stagnant water, and try to remain indoors until we determine that it is safe to emerge.
'A national curfew has been instituted, and begins at 10 o'clock tonight and will continue until further notice. If you have a motor car, do not operate it, as we will have to conserve our petrol supply. Those of you who own factories or farms will be contacted soon by a government official. As of this time, we are attempting to establish contact with as many aeroplanes and ships that we can, for many of them, their destination no longer exists. Please try to conserve electricity and stay off the telephone unless it is absolutely neccessary. When we have more information, you will be informed as to the time of broadcast.'
The Prime Minister paused, and then concluded.
'This is the gravest threat the human race has ever faced. But if we all keep our heads, we will survive. I know we can. Good luck to us all.'
Snow filled the screen. After a moment of stunned silence, the crowd broke into chaos. Women screaming, children crying. The Defense Secretary led Fiona to the waiting automobile.
St. Lucy Government Buildings, Redford Bay, St. Lucy
11:34AM
John Slater sat in the Prime Minister's office. Across from him sat Prime Minister Walker, who drummed his fingers impatiently as the camera crew backed up and trundled out the door.
'Now, Mr. Slater, to business. What is our current situation, and what must we do?'
'Basically, your honour,' began John, 'St. Lucy is now an island in the most literal sense. There is nowhere else except St. Lucy. All we have to work with is what's on the island already, or what is on the ships we have managed to contact and redirect here.'
'What about our supplies?'
'Unless we ration them carefully, sir, we will surely run out. As we speak, I have sent survey crews out to inspect various forested regions of the island for their suitability as farmland. Without the food shipments, we will be forced to produce all of our own food. Likewise, we must produce all of our own petrol. There are a few oil wells on the island, but we must build more. A major reorganization of the entire island economy is needed.'
'I have in your report here, Mr. Slater,' said the Prime Minister, examing a memo, 'that one of our primary concerns is electricity?'
'That is correct, sir, the power plant is fired by either coal or oil, neither of which is produced in sufficient quantities to maintain the minimum output. With our current stockpile, I estimate that we will run out in approximately 3 months time.'
'But what can we do?'
'Well, sir, I believe, sir, that we must find an alternate source of electricity. We must build wind generators like were being planned for areas of California. That will provide some power, but we must find a substitute for the main plant.'
'What would you suggest we do? Burn the trees?'
'A logical solution, sir, except that we would run out of trees. Instead, I propose that we get some hydro electric generators built. There are plenty of waterfalls inland.'
'Very well. Radio the survey teams and have them see to it.'
'Yes, your honour. Another possiblity would be to use the nuclear generator on that American submarine the San Ramon.'
'Nuclear generator, Slater?,' sputtered the Prime Minister.
'Indeed, sir, the submarine is, er... was part of a new class of nuclear-powered vehicles capable of travelling indefinitely. The generator could be adapted to produce electrical power.'
'But would that Captain Farrell ever allow that?'.
There came from the hallway sounds of a scuffle. A loud voice was shouting, and booted footsteps grew nearer and nearer the door. Suddenly, in burst Captain Farrell, several clerks vainly trying to restrain him.
'I believe we have the oppurtunity to ask, sir.'
Farrell glared at Slater with narrowed eyes.
'Shut up, you pencil-pushing desk jockey!,' he boomed. His eyes turned to the Prime Minister. 'Mr. Prime Minister! I DEMAND to know why there have been no war plans made yet'
The Prime Minister was unsure what that was supposed to mean.
'War plans?'
'Yes, sir, war plans. They started this war, and by gum, the United States of America is going to end it.'
'We?'
'Damn right. The Commies are in disarrray, and now would be the time to strike!'
'Strike?'
'Yes, sir, strike! I have my ship and my crew and we're raring to go! If you could supply us with a unit of your army's best men, I promise you we'll be marching through Red Square before May Day!'
'I don't think so, Captain Farrell...' began the Prime Minister.
'Damn you blasted cowards!,' screamed the Captain. The Prime Minister stood and leaned across the desk at him.
'No, damn YOU, you great fool!,' he snapped. 'Don't you realize what's happened? There is no war. There is no invasion. There is no Red Square! And I know for damn sure, this is no United States of America. It's over. Everything is. And we lost.'
The Captain stood shaking in surprise.
'And,' continued the Prime Minister, seeing the oppurtunity, 'you'd just use your nuclear technology to blow up what's left of the world!'
This was more than the Captain could handle.
'Nu-nuclear technology?,' he stammered. His eyes came back to Slater. 'Why you commie pinko spy! You told them about the generator! That's a military secret!'.
He seized Slater by the collar and hauled him into the air. The Prime Minister strode around the desk and stood inches away from the Captain's ear.
'Put him down, Captain Farrell, or I shall have you placed under arrest.'
'There is no military any more,' said John through clenched teeth.
Captain Farrell threw John back into the chair with disgust. He turned and stormed out of the office.
'God dammit!' he yelled.
John regained his composure and turned back to the Prime Minister, who was now leaning against the desk, his energy spent by the outburst.
'Shouldn't we try to stop him? He might do something really stupid!'
'Never mind him,' replied the Prime Minister, 'he's just in denial. He can't accept the reality of what's happened. Speaking of reality, what are our long-term plans?'
John was about to begin when the Defense Secretary came in.
'That submarine captain just attacked me!,' he exclaimed.
'We know,' said the Prime Minister and John in unison.
'Now then,' continued the Prime Minister, 'we were just about to discuss our long term plans.'
'Ah, that was why I was on my way to see you, sir,' replied the Defense Secretary.
'Excellent. Mr Slater, why don't you go first,' said the Prime Minister.
'Thank you sir. I believe what we should do now is to try to contact as many other islands that we can. No doubt by combining our resources we will be safer and stand a better chance of survival.'
'Safer?,' asked the Defense Secretary, raising an eyebrow.
'Yes, Mr. Secretary, safer. Even though we are fairly far out to sea, we are not completely cut off from the rest of the world. A group of people from the mainland could almost certainly reach us if they were determined.'
'But what could they want?'
'Our technology. We have guns and ammunition and electricity and motor cars, and in large quantities. We have petrol, and we have food supplies. All of these would be very useful to survivors.'
'So shouldn't we share what we have to help rebuild civilization?,' inquired the Prime Minister.
'Not quite yet, sir, we don't know what it's like over on the Mainland yet. Right now we should try to organize with other islands before we attempt contact with the outside world.'
'Very well, Mr. Slater. Mr Secretary, would you see that the wireless operators get in touch with the neighbouring islands?'
'At once, sir. May I state my proposals as well?,' said the Defense Secretary.
'Certainly. We're listening.'
'Thank you. I propose, once Mr. Slater's plan is underway,' he said, nodding at John, 'that we load up two of our longest-ranged amphibious aeroplanes and try to establish contact with survivors, preferably in the United States.'
'I'll take that under consideration, Mr. Secretary. If there is no more, let's get back to work, for there's rather a lot of it.'
John got up and left, the Prime Minister sat down and started dialling the phone, leaving the poor Defense Secretary standing there wondering what he'd said wrong.
Redford Bay Harbour, St. Lucy
1:45PM
Captain Farrell stormed up the gangplank and onto the San Ramon, where it sat moored in Redford Bay's harbour.
'Welcome back, sir!!!,' saluted the deck officer.
'Dammit!,' replied Captain Farrell.
'Sir?,' asked the confused officer.
'Tell the crew to get ready. We're setting sail immediately.'
The First Officer poked his head up from the conning tower.
'Captain? We are?'
'Damn straight!'
'If I might ask, sir, why?'
The Captain walked to the edge of the deck and looked out over the ocean.
'Those damn idiots say the war is over. They don't realize there's gotta be commies still hiding under the pile of rubble that is Moscow. It is our duty, as Americans, to go and blast them to bits!,' He turned, and faced the First Officer. 'Do you understand?'
'Uh... sir yes sir right away sir!,' hollered the First Officer, and plunged down the ladder.
The Captain grinned and lit a cigar as he heard the First Officer barking orders to the crew.
St. Lucy Government Building, Redford Bay, St. Lucy
3:03PM
The Defense Secretary was just completing the preliminary lists of supplies for the seaplane expedition when a clerk came running in.
'Mr Secretary!,'
'Yes,' replied the Secretary, putting down his pen.
'The American submarine, it's gone!'
Instantly the Secretary leapt to his feet.
'GONE?'
'Yes, sir, one of the crane operators saw it heading away at full steam!'
'Any idea where it's headed?'
'North East, sir.'
The Secretary dismissed the clerk, and sat down, pondering the situation. What was north east that a megalomanical submarine captain would want to go to? He walked over to the large map of the world on the wall. With his finger he traced a line from St. Lucy north east. He ran into Africa. No good. He tried it again. He ended up Gibraltar. The Mediterranean? But why? What was near the Mediterranean? Then he saw it. A big star on the map. Russia. Moscow. The Secretary hurried back to his desk, and grabbed a pad. He scribbled down 'American submarine heading northeast to Russia via Mediterranean and Black Sea.' Picking it up he hurried out into the hallway and told the clerk to have that sent to the Prime Minister at once.
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER:
April 5, 2078
St. Lucy International Airport
4:33PM
John Slater sat in the shade beneath the wing of the huge Rutland flying boat as the final preparations were made for the expedition to North America. The 'South London Airlines' logo had been painted over with the new logo of the Technology Republic, the result of contact with the other unbombed islands. They had over 20 member nations, from St. Kates in the north to Dominique in the far south. After much bickering, the nations had elected St. Lucy, which had been richest before the war and therefore had the most resources, as the leader. Since the inception 2 months previous, massive construction and re-organization through the Caribbean had the dream of self-sufficency growing every day. Large oil deposits were found on many of the islands, acres of forest were cut to make farmland, and mines provided raw material for factories, enabling the production of parts to maintain the machinery. To make matter's worse, there had been now news of Captain Farrell or the San Ramon. There was a loud creak, and John turned to see the loading truck back out of the cargo doors. It was time.
Two Rutland flying boats, laden with supplies and fuel, were to fly north to what had been Miami before the war. Attempts to contact Miami via radio to inform any survivors had failed. Slater go up and made his way around to the boarding ramp. He spotted Fiona disappear into the fuselage, followed by Thomas Bradbury. Slater had specially picked Bradbury for this mission. His experience as a commando in the SAS, decided Slater, would prove useful in this potentially dangerous mission. Bradbury looked over and was about to wave when he suddenly pointed. Slater turned to see Ralph Winchester running up to the cargo doors, pushing a large crate on a dolly. Creeping around the side of the plane, Slater watched as Winchester argued with the crew member who was attempting to close the doors. After much bickering, the crewman furtively glanced around, and then gestured for Winchester to wheel the crate up into the plane. He soon emerged, nodded curtly to the crew member, and scurried off as quickly as his fat legs would carry him. The crewman signal to another inside to close the cargo doors. Slater slinked back around to the wing and made his way for the boarding ramp, as the engines began to power up.
Somewhere over the Caribbean Sea
9:01PM
The lovely clear ocean waves rolled beneath the wings as the seaplane flew over the Caribbean Sea. Fiona looked out the window, and caught sight of the second plane about 100 yards away. She leaned back into her chair, shifting about uncomfortably. Sitting for 4 hours is not pleasant, she thought. She hardly noticed when John came and sat in the chair opposite.
'It's such a shame..,' she said to herself.
'Pardon?,' replied Slater.
'Oh!,' exclaimed Fiona, realizing she wasn't alone. 'I was just thinking...'
'About all that's happened?'
'Erm... no. I was refering to how they still can't make a comfortable aeroplane chair!'
She bounced several times on the cushion trying to find relief from the dull ache.
'Oh,' said John, gazing out the window. 'I was just thinking about whether this entire trip will be worth it...'
'It isn't so far,' answer Fiona, finally satisfied when she slouched so low in the seat only her back was touching it.
'What I meant,' said John, trying to ignore her behaviour, 'is if we can actually make a difference.'
'Why not,' Fiona said, 'we certainly did in the Carib. Why not the rest of the world?'
'Do you realize, Fiona, how much work there is to be done? I mean, even if we had all the people back, there would be a tremendous amount of work ahead.'
'I don't understand.'
'Well, let's think about about 2000 years, which is about the level of technology we can expect to find in use among any survivors. But even 2000 years ago, there was a huge infrastructure. There were miners, blacksmiths, builders, all sorts of skilled and unskilled labour. Raw materials and food were being produced, allowing such a system. After all, it is agriculture that allowed man to evolve beyond hunter-gatherer tribes.'
'Oh, I think I get it...'
'Anyways, as time progressed, technology advanced. People became more skilled, and more advanced items could be built. But all the while, there was still that supporting background of food and raw materials. There isn't such a support structure where we're going. Do you think that, when we arrive in Miami, if we just start building factories and roads and cars that civilization will be reborn?'
'Of course not.'
'Precisely,' said John, leaning back. 'Because there is nothing to supply it. The factories would sit idle because there are no raw materials. The motor cars would also sit because there was no petrol. In order to get petrol you need an oil refinery. Okay, let's assume one of the factories we've built is an oil refinery.'
'Oil refinery,' parroted Fiona.
'But an oil refinery is useless without oil! And to get oil, you need...'
'...oil wells?,' Fiona offered.
'Exactly. But you have to build an oil well in the right spot, otherwise you won't get anything. So you'll need the right people and equipment to search for oil reserves.'
'But, aren't they all dead? And surely the people who are left will have no idea how to do it.,' said Fiona, grasping the concept.
John sat forward on the chair. 'Right. They're all dead. The knowledge is almost certainly lost to them. People didn't start drilling for oil until the 19th century.'
'Well of course, not, John! They had no use for it until then. But these survivors, with their refineries and cars, would!'
'Ah, but how do you think they discovered how to find oil reserves back then?'
'Well... I... don't know?'
'That's right, I'm afraid. You don't. And why should you? Modern society is based on specialization. No-one needs to know how to find oil except...'
'...oil finders!' interrupted Fiona.
'Good enough. Understand my doubts now?'
'No,' replied Fiona with a grin, 'I'm just a public relations person.'
April 6, 2078
Somewhere over the Caribbean Sea
4:58AM
The large crates rocked back and forth in the moorings, and John Slater had to be careful as he made his way through them. Clinging onto some cargo netting, he swung over a particularly large crate and arrived at his destination, Winchester's mysterious box. The cargo hold was large, but was also packed with supplies. Food, equipment, extra fuel, some weapons, everything deemed neccessary for the trip. A sign swung over a switch labeled 'DANGER: bay door release mechanism. Do not use while in flight or on water.'. Slater picked up a crowbar lying on the floor and was about to pry the lid off the crate when he heard the co-pilot calling him.
'Mr Slater!!'
John, disappointed, lowered the crowbar, and answered. 'What?'
'We're coming up on the Florida coast, the pilot wants you up here!'
'Coming!,' called Slater, and then to the crate he whispered, 'this isn't over yet.'
Over Miami, Florida
6:17AM
Through a layer of early-morning haze, the devastated ruins of Miami swept into view. The voice of the other plane's pilot crackled over the radio.
'Fzzt- looking for landing zone, over.'
'Copy, over,' replied John.
The pilot leaned back, 'Mr. Slater, where do we land?'
John scanned the ruins for a suitably large space. The strewn pieces of debris combined with the fog made it a difficult task at best. Another wave of mist passed over the windscreen, and a large open brownish area caught John's eye. He pointed at it, and the pilot nodded and began descending. John picked up the radio again.
'Uh, we appear to have sighted some sort of park, looks clear, preparing to land, over.'
'Fzzt- copy, will follow,' came the reply.
The huge flying boat made a wide sweeping turn over the ruins, and the pilot confirmed John's theory that the park was indeed a safe place to land. With a delicate touch the pilot thottled back the engine and the plane dipped slowly down towards the expanse of the park. John hurriedly strapped himself into the empty stewardess's chair.
City Park Landing zone, Miami
7:48AM
The cool morning breeze whipped dust around the two parked planes as they sat in the park. John slowly turned the sub-machine gun over in his hands. He stared intently at it, trying not to look at the devastation that surrounded him. The ground was all muddy, the grass having been burned away by the nuclear blast. Only a few patches of dry scrub poked through the soil. The buildings were equally burned, creaking ruins which made a haunting sound when the wind blew. Bradbury emerged from behind an overturned car, and hurried up to the planes, nervously glancing left and right, clutching the combat shotgun.
'It seems all clear, John, but I wouldn't be completely sure. I could be 10 feet from someone and walk right past them.'
'Do you think anyone survived?'
'I wasn't completely sure, at least, until I found this...'
Bradbury produced a tattered sales brochure. John examined it... 'VAULT-TEC, America's Final Word in Homes, invites you to the grand opening of Vault 32, located in the heart of beautiful Miami... The Vault series of shelters are designed from the ground up to provide the best chance for a good life following nuclear armageddon.'
'Interesting...,' mused John, examining the cover which featured the typically idyllic family enjoying their life in what was, for want of a better term, a high-tech cave.
'It says,' observed Bradbury, 'that these 'vaults' are designed to hold the people for up to 10 years... so I don't think we can expect them any time soon...'
'Couldn't we just go find the Vault and knock on the door?'
'If you were living in a bomb shelter and some stranger came knocking on the door saying "ooh there's been a nuclear war and everyone's dead... mind if I come in for tea?", would YOU let them in?,' sneered Bradbury, aware he didn't need a response.
John just returned to fiddling with his gun. Bradbury sniffed defiantly, and skulked off to hunt for survivors.
City Park Landing zone, Miami
5:28PM
It was already well past five in the afternoon, and John was charting up the whole trip to be a big bust. Fiona sat beside him on the doorframe of the plane.
'Ah, don't ye worry about it, John. At least we've confirmed our worst fears.'
'I just feel bad, for all these people, I mean,' said John quietly, 'it was such a stupid war and this never should have happened.'
'Don't start worrying about what could have happened now,' scolded Fiona, 'think about what the future will hold, and what has happened.'
Bradbury came running up, followed by two guards.
'We found someone!,' he shouted.
John leapt to his feet and jumped from the door to the ground as Bradbury came panting to a stop.
'Who?'
'A band of survivors... they don't have much in the way of supplies...,' he managed between breaths, 'so... I told them... where the plane was... so they could come... and pick some up...'
'Excellent!,' John beamed, 'this wasn't a waste of time after all!'
'You didn't tell them about the Technology Republic, did you?,' called Fiona from the doorframe above.
'Not exactly,' Bradbury called up to her, 'just that we had some working technology and we were willing to help others.'
'And what did they say?,' inquired John.
'Well, Mr. Slater, they weren't too sure until I said it was advanced technology, then they were really eager. They said they'd be along before sundown...'
'Splendid,' remarked John, and then a thought crossed his mind. 'Mr. Bradbury, won't you come with me and help me open this crate I found in the cargo hold?'
City Park Landing zone, Miami
6:01PM
With the aid of the crowbar, Slater and Bradbury were able to get the lid off the crate quite easily.
'Whose is it?,' asked Bradbury as they rummaged through the packing material.
'A gift from Mr. Winchester,' replied John as he groped through the wood shavings. 'He seemed to be quite eager that we get it...'
John's hands found purchase and he lifted the object out.
'Oh, it's just a rifle,' Bradbury remarked as he looked at the shavings-covered shape.
John dusted it off.
'Geez Louise!,' he muttered. It was indeed a rifle, but a Wattz Electronics laser rifle.
'Whoa,' said Bradbury with a whistle, 'niiiiiiiice'.
He reached into the box.
'There's more in here, Slater!,' he said, 'and power cells too!'
Pulling one from the crate, John attached the cell to a recess on the bottom of the gun. A large red button began to flash. He pushed it, and a gun began to hum as the capacitors charged up. A long gauge on the breech glowed green, which, John reasoned, meant a full charge.
'I wonder why he...'
'Mr. Slater! Mr. Bradbury! Come quickly!'
It was Fiona.
City Park Landing zone, Miami
6:11PM
He was a haggard looking man, obviously malnourished, and wearing tattered clothes. He wobbled unsteadily, and it seemed that a mere gust of wind would be enough to knock him right over. John Slater and Bradbury ran up.
'Ah...,' managed the derelict in a weak voice, 'the ones with the tech... we saw you but didn't want to come out because of the Hellhounds...'
'Hellhounds?,' inquired John.
'Yes,' said the man, 'a vicious gang of murderers, rapists and thieves! Ever since the bombs fell, they've had the run of the city, terrorizing the rest of the survivors, stealing the food...'
A light went on in Bradbury's head.
'What do these gangers look like,' he asked in a worried tone.
'The leader, the most viscous, evil creature ever to walk the surface of...
'Spare us the melodrama...'
'...sorry... his name is Razor, and he looks...'
'Hold it,' said John, raising his hand. 'Do you REALLY expect us to believe there's an evil gang led by some terrifyingly evil guy named Razor?!?'
'With all due respect, Mr. Slater, shut the hell up for a minute,' snapped Bradbury.
There was an awkward pause, during which Slater and Bradbury glared at each other, while the man coughed violently.
'...as I was saying,' said the man, 'he is unshaven, has dark, almost black eyes, and wears a leather jacket...'
'Oh crap,' said Bradbury.
'What is it?,' asked John.
'Those are the guys that I told you about...,' said Bradbury quietly.
'The ones that are coming here soon?'
'That's right... oh crap,' repeated Bradbury, almost as in a trance.
'Oh crap indeed, matey...but they haven't much chance. We've got guns!,' said John boldly.
'They have guns as well,' the man said.
'But do they have laser rifles like this one?,' said John holding up the weapon in his hands.
'No, but they have three times as many men as you do.'
John just shuddered. He looked at Bradbury. Bradbury looked around at the ruins. The wind blew right on cue to make both of them jump.
'Err.... Thomas,' said John to Bradbury, 'would you be a good chap and start getting the people and equipment back on the planes?'
'R-r-r-right away, Mr. Slater,' spluttered Bradbury, who had been standing with his mouth open in shock so long he was almost drooling. He raced off towards the other plane.
'Oi!,' shouted John, tilting his head up to the cockpit window. The pilot stuck his head out.
'What?'
'Start the engines and turn the plane around for take-off!'
'Are you sure,' called the pilot, 'there's enough light we can wait another few hours...'
'We don't have another few hours, do it!,' John shouted and paused, before adding 'and that's an order!'.
'You're the boss, boss!,' replied the pilot, and withdrew into the cockpit.
A wave of relief helped wash away some of the anxiety as John heard the 6 motors grinding to life. He directed the haggard man out of the way as the huge Rutland began to swing around, pointing towards the ocean just visible in the distance. A few hundred yards away, the other plane was starting its engines as the crew hurried about gathering up the surveying equipment scattered around the landing area.
'Well,' said John to the man, who was swaying even more due to the wash from the propellers, 'you've probably saved a lot of lives. We had a bad feeling that there would be anarchy and gangs like this... we can bring you back with us so you can get some medical attention, and maybe a decent meal!'
'Oh,' replied the man, a smile crinkling throught the layers of filth on his face, 'that's just the nicest...'
A shot rang out from the darkness, and the man groaned as a bullet thudded into his chest. John stepped back in horror as the man staggered. The sound of another burst echoed across from the ruins, and many rounds thudded into the man, taking out a large chunk from his midsection. He fell to his knees, before falling face first into the dirt.
'Move it out!!!,' screamed John, who turned and began running in the direction of the plane.
He realized, to his horror, that the other plane was only just getting underway in turning. John looked over his shoulder to see the gangers rushing out from the ruins. Shots rang out in the darkness. Spinning around, John fired a burst from his laser rifle. One shot caught a man in the chest and he fell over, clutching at the burning flesh, while another sliced neatly through another's arm. A hand, complete with pistol, fell to the ground, accompanied by a fountain of blood. John resumed his race to the aeroplane, which was beginning to pull away.
'Come on, John!,' called Bradbury, leaning out the door to squeeze off a few rounds from the shotgun.
In desperation, John Slater slung the rifle over his shoulder and gave a final burst of sprinter speed, catching up with the side of the plane.
'Grab my hand!,' called Bradbury, lowering the gun and holding out his hand.
With a final burst of energy, John lunged forward and caught Bradbury's hand. With amazing strength, Bradbury pulled him into the door frame.
'One for the road,' he shouted to John over the roar of the engines, and raised the shotgun for a final round. Just as he fired, three bullets thumped into him, and he crumpled to the floor. Frantcially, John grabbed for his collar and managed to save Bradbury from plunging out the door. Carefully setting him against the wall, John slammed the door shut and staggered up to the cockpit.
'Come on,' he said, 'we have to make it!'
'Almost at takeoff speed...' replied the pilot, grunting as he pulled on the control column.
'Ah nooo, John, look!,' called Fiona, jabbing her finger out the side window.
The second plane, accelerating along the rough ground, caught a stream of tracer bullets in the left 3 engines. Flames belched from the ruptured fuel lines, and the plane twisted disastrously on the ground before plowing into a ruined public washroom. John braced himself against the ground began to lift away, watching. The other plane's crew made a brave stand to defend their ruined craft, but as John and Fiona watched, the gangers overwhelmed them. John closed his eyes and beat against the ceiling with his fist. Fiona closed her eyes and silently went to get the medical kit for Bradbury. The flying boat banked, turning south.
EPILOGUE
April 10, 2078
St. Lucy International Airport, St. Lucy
7:03PM
The huge solar panels slowly rotated, following the sun as it began to sink beneath the azure waters of the Caribbean. John sat on the watch tower at the St. Lucy Airport. A squeaking sound grew in the distance, and Fiona appeared under the glare of the arc lights, pushing Bradbury in a wheelchair. Leaving Bradbury at the bottom, Fiona climbed the steps to the top of the tower.
'Message for you, John. Apparently the San Ramon is on her way back. Captain Farrell fell into a crater in Russia and got radiation poisoning...,' said Fiona, offering a letter. John didn't take it. There was long silence.
'It's such a shame, isn't it,' she said quietly.
'What is?,' replied John.
'What we've done to the world, it'll never be the same again,' she replied with a sigh.
An angry squeaking of wheels came from below.
'Hurry up!,' yelled Bradbury, 'I'm hungry down here!'
John and Fiona ignored him.
'It's in our nature to destroy ourselves,' said John,'and this time we almost did.'
'The world wasn't ready for technology,' replied Fiona. The sky was turning a deep red.
'It still isn't,' said John, and he turned and walked down the steps.
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