72 Hours till Doomsday (2 page)

The walk from the bus station to his quiet suburban neighborhood seemed longer than usual that day, the houses standing stagnant, their chimneys grazing the low grey clouds. Even the flower bulbs seemed hesitant to peek their faces out, maybe they knew something that Gregor didn’t.

Alice was standing in the kitchen, her hands busy scrubbing a biscuit tin. The scene was homey and comforting; the dappled light reaching through the curtains, the scent of blueberry and sugar sweeping into his nostrils, the figure of his wife in her new sneakers. Even the floorboard that squeaked didn’t rile him like it usually did. He was just happy to be home.

“Hello Muffin.”

She turned, drying her hands with a tea towel. A half smile.

“Hello Luv. How was your day?”

“Hmm. Interesting I suppose. I don’t think a one of us got a single thing done. It’s these blasted news reports. Got everyone squirrely.”

“Huh. Well, at least they’re not about to shut you down. Right? Public utilities always come through in a time of crisis.”

“Sure. I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s just something strange in the air.”

“There certainly is. When I went to the market today, nearly all the shelves were empty. Like they’d been looted. I only managed a bag of flour and a couple cans of soup before the whole thing just gave me the creepers. You should have seen it.”

“That’s odd.”

“I know. Oh, and we’ve gotten another notice on our mortgage. We’ve been late too many times now.”

Gregor settled into his favorite chair at the kitchen table, reaching to pluck a warm blueberry scone from the heap. He sighed, glancing around the room.

“I just don’t know what to say. You were the one who wanted to move up here to the ‘burbs. I said we can’t afford to, and that was even before…”

“Before what?”

“Before you lost your job. I mean, we have some left in savings. We can pull it out if you’d like. But then we wouldn’t be able to take our vacation to Spain this summer.”

Alice made a face, dropped the towel back onto its rung. She would never admit it, but she’d been unhappier than ever since moving here. Sure, the house was bigger and all the faucets worked, but it was straining not just their bank accounts but her sanity as well, especially now that she didn’t have the school to escape to. It was like all her strings were being pulled tighter and tighter, so taut they hummed, seconds from breaking.

He could feel her unease. It had become more palpable lately, leaking from her pores like vapor. He swallowed the last of his snack.

“Maybe... Maybe we should move back. Don’t give me that look. I know it was a lot smaller, but we could afford it. And it was close to the kids.”

“But we’ve worked hard for this, Greg. Aren’t we old enough now that we deserve a few luxuries?”

He felt the guilt prick his cheeks. A man that can’t provide nice things for his wife. His father would be ashamed.

“Of course, Muffin. It was just an idea.”

He reached for another scone, desperate to change the subject.

“Have you heard from Nigel lately? Or Sarah?”

“No. I think they’re both cross. Since we’ve moved away, I mean. I tried to reassure them that their kids wouldn’t grow up without their grandparents. I mean, Shoreditch isn’t that far from Battersea after all.”

“And yet, we’ve yet to make the trip, either.”

They both looked at each other, a weariness showing through their thin aging skin, and then stared at the floor for a moment.

“I’ve just been so busy.”

“I know, Luv.”

Their silence hung there for a moment. Alice turned to switch on the kettle, pulling two mugs down from the cupboard.

“Tea?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The couple spent their Monday evening stuffed into their respective chairs, eyes glued to the set. They absorbed the nightly news, images burning into their brains of plummeting stocks, home invasions, new pockets of protest activity. They’d never admit it to each other, but they were getting scared. The Brixton riots were growing violent and moving North. Rumors were that their neighbor across the way was packing up his family and running away to the country. Several London bus routes had already been shut down due to terrorist threats.

Alice gasped, her half finished knitting dropped into her lap.

“They’ve taken over the old power station!”

Gregor watched the report, those twin stacks recognizable from anywhere, the station lot now littered with tents and young angry people swarming between them, shouting.

“I thought they’d renovated it into fancy apartments?”

“The project was stopped a couple of years ago. Ran out of money. Now it just stands there half-finished.”

“That’s just up the road from us.”

“And even closer to your work. Oh Greg, don’t go in tomorrow. Call in sick. It isn’t worth it.”

“Muffin, we need the money. I have to keep my job. Especially during all of this.”

She was biting at her nails now, her graying temples showing under the blue glow of the television.

“But it’s too dangerous. I’ll be worried sick about you all day.”

“Sorry. They need me there. Shift managers are relied on in times like these.”

She sat there, still and silent, eyes brimming with fearful tears. There was nothing she could do to change his mind. She could only pray and hope for the best.

As they lay in their spacious bed that night, Gregor couldn’t shake gloomy feelings from his head. He pulled the covers up around his neck, listening intently, worried for his home, his neighborhood. Every sound shook him from his shallow slumber, his muscles tensing to face a threat. He reminded himself to pick up a pistol tomorrow. He had an ugly feeling that he might need one.

Altan awoke with a start, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. The sheets were sticking to his chest like cellophane, trapping him, making it hard to breathe. He’d had a horrible dream in which he was attacked by vultures. They had pecked out his eyes, leaving him bleeding in the dusty streets, begging for someone to show him mercy. He could smell the foods from the stalls, the bells and squeals and running feet slammed into his ears. He wandered for days and days until he reached the desert, dying of thirst, visions of his wife and children tortured him. They sat by the pool drinking mint tea, laughing at something funny. Laughing at him. He lay down in the sand, begging for death but it never came. It felt so real that the beeping alarm clock sounded like the vulture’s cry. He’d shot up in bed, ready to fight them off.

“Altan? You alright?”
Sule was stirring, her words mumbled against her pillow. He couldn’t shake the image of her laughing at him, blood staining the front of his tunic.

“I’m okay. Go back to sleep.”

He peeled off the sheets and stepped into their adjacent master bathroom. He met his own gaze in the mirror, searching for a fragment, a semblance of the young and happy man he used to be. He looked too old. Too hardened. This business had sucked the life from him so that even his marrows were dry. Like sand. He felt heavy, shapeless. He had tried to leave once before, become a carpenter instead of an oil baron, but his father had still been alive at the time and forbade it. Coming from an upstanding Turkish household, there were expectations he had to meet, a presence he had to maintain, and an image he had to craft and protect. These were his burdens.

Both he and his Mercedes were grateful for the short commute, as the roadblocks were reproducing at an alarming rate. Soon, half the streets would be shut down and the city would become strangled, its people clamoring to escape as the bombings grew closer. The horizon was already littered with trails of dirty smoke, rising up to the heavens like warning flags. He was unsuccessfully trying to ignore the growing stone settling in his stomach.

The parking lot at the high-rise was more packed than usual, and the raucous scene in the lobby was soon forgotten as he rode up to the hush of the 38th floor. Here it was quiet. But not a peaceful quiet, more of a fearful quiet. Like when you’re being hunted and mustn’t breathe lest you give yourself away.

Eda was at her desk, picking nervously at a file folder. Her makeup was not at its usual impeccable level, and a stray strand of hair had come loose from her bun.

“Eda. What is going on? Where is everyone?”

“Ah, Mr. Batur! I didn’t see you there.” She lowered her voice. “There is a meeting in conference room A, sir. You should go.”

“Yes, thank you Eda.”

He was glad he’d elected to wear a suit today and left his usual whites at home. He knocked before he entered the room, a gathering of dark faces, sweat seeping out from under their collars, swiveled to see him.

“Altan. Come in. Shut the door.”

“Thank you, Kemal. What is this?”

A deep voice erupted from across the table. “We were discussing our prospects, Mr. Batur.” The company lawyer. Well, one of them. “Our options are not looking good.”

There was a smattering of official looking papers, looking like they’d been thrown onto the glass table.

“What do you mean?”

Another man piped up, running his clammy fingers up and down his silk tie as he spoke.

“Our stocks are down thirty three points. Investors are pulling out, saying it’s too risky.”

“But we sell oil. We know what kind of profits war and unrest can bring,” another said.

“Yes, but not when the unrest is at home. There were bombings last night in Maltepe. The Greek markets have already fallen. We’ve all seen the tanks. The roads are closing. The rebels are rising. Nobody wants to invest now. Not here.”

“Our oil field in Camurlu has been captured by the Syrians. Just this morning, before dawn. Eight of our men are dead.”

“What about the fields in Diyarbakir and Garzan?’ he asked.

“Safe for now.”

He looked around the table and noticed the circle of lined faces was missing a very important player.

“Where is Mehmet?” His only friend.

“We haven’t seen him yet. His secretary has been trying his phone.”

“It’s still early, Altan. He will show up.”

He couldn’t help but feel unsettled by this news. Mehmet, their chief of financial development, was never late to the office. His Rolls Royce was always one of the first to arrive in the mornings, his door always the first one opened on their floor. It was so unlike him to miss something like this.

The meeting droned on, curiously uninterrupted by any of their fleet of secretaries and attendants. They decided to break for a late lunch just after deciding to ask for American intervention and made a promise to increase security at their remaining oil fields. It was not a happy time, and everyone could feel it.

Altan ducked into his office and rested his head in his hands, but was startled by the constant buzzing in his left pocket. His phone showed a total of thirteen missed calls; six of them were from his wife. Suddenly his throat felt very tight and the worry bubbled to the surface.

“Sule? Sule? What’s wrong?”

She answered on the first ring.

“Altan. Where were you? I was so worried.”

“I was just in a meeting. I’m okay. What’s going on? Is it the kids?”

She sighed into the receiver. “No, it was just the strangest thing. I was out walking to the market and passed the old woman on the corner. You know the one by the teashop? She jumped out in front of me and started yelling. She was saying the most awful things, Altan. She said the sins of the father would be paid when the stones bled. People were staring at me. I was so frightened. I’m sorry. I just had to call you. It was so strange. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“The sins of the father would be paid when the stones bled?”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t say anything about vultures?”

“No. What? Why?”

“No reason. Did she say anything else?”

“I don’t know. I ran, Altan. I couldn’t bear for her to yell at me, pointing her finger in my face.”

“It’s okay, Sule. You are safe. She was probably just spouting nonsense. You know she likes to drink.”

“Perhaps.” She didn’t sound convinced. He could hear that she was shaking through the phone.

“I’ll be home soon. Just try to calm down.”

“Altan. That isn’t all. I just got a call. Mehmet is dead.”

Something was on fire. The smoke was rushing into his nose, weaving into his hair. It was the sharp smell of danger that roused Matias. He looked around the room, using his flashlight in the murky dawn, its golden circle tracing a path from corner to corner. He pulled on the jeans that were on the floor and headed towards the door. His palm determined the fire wasn’t on the other side and he pushed it open with a long squawk. The rest of the house was quiet, still in slumber, and yet the smell of smoke persisted. It was strongest in the kitchen. He rushed through, placing his browned hands on every surface he could find, seeking the heat source. And then he looked up. Out the kitchen window. Then bolted out the back door, bare feet scraping on the rocks, the heavy warm air pelting his bare chest.

The fields were burning.

Flames licked the air with their dancing orange tongues, and the thick gray smoke choked the sky. Acres and acres of their lives were being consumed right before his eyes. He ran as close to the field as his lungs could stand, finally coming to rest on the southwest corner, safely out of the path of the smoldering cloud. There were a handful of other men standing there, watching it burn, defeat etched into their faces. He snagged the gaze of one.

“Carlos. Eh? What’s going on?”

“Matias.” His friend put his sturdy hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know man. This isn’t good.”

“Not with what happened yesterday, no.”

“Si.”

“You don’t know who set the fire?”

“No. Who would do this?”

“Everything. Just gone.”

“I’m going to have to move my family. Again. And we have another one on the way.”

“Lo siento Carlos. I’m sorry.”

“What about you? How is Teresa?”

“She’s a little better these days. I don’t know. We might just stay. See what happens.”

“Well, just stay safe, okay Matias?”

“Si. Of course. Hey, have you seen the foremen?”

“No. Nowhere to be found. I thought I heard their trucks earlier, but maybe I was just crazy. There’s no work anyway.”

“Right. It’s just strange.”

“I guess I should go. Pack up the truck.”

“Good luck to you and your family, Carlos. Come back and find me some day.”

“Ah,” he let out a soft sorrowful sigh, “I will, man. I will.”

The men shared a hug there on the edge of the burning field. Matias knew he might never see his friend again, and watched him walk away, brushing the wet grit from his eyes as he turned. When he walked back into his house, the girls were standing by the truck with their arms crossed over their thin t-shirts.

“Papa?” It was always the youngest, Maria Elena who sought his comfort.

“It’s okay, Maria. Go back inside.”

“But what happened? Who started the fire?”

“We don’t know yet, girls. Go wake up your mother.”

“Are we moving again?”

“No. Now go inside.”

They shuffled in their plastic sandals back towards the door. Matias leaned against the truck for a moment and watched the sky. Nobody was coming to put out the fire. They were just going to let it burn. Scorch the earth down to the dust. The first rays of the sun popped up over the hills, flooding the valley with an eerie greenish glow. Smoke always did that: ruined perfectly good sunlight and filled him with an odd sense of foreboding. Like the sky was coming down to earth, lower and lower, close enough to touch, to taste, until finally it smothered you.

Several other migrants had come out of their houses, walking in a daze, shouting things at each other in Spanish. Women crowded the doorways and children cried. Clothes were shoved into plastic bags and chucked into pickup beds. Refrigerators were emptied, pictures were taken down from the walls, rosaries already clutched between dirty fingers, ready for another journey. By the time the sun was high, eight families had already left. Teresa begged to join them.

“Please mi cielo, stop. We are staying.”

“But there is nothing left for us here! No money!”

“We will be okay. You have to stay. You need your medicine. And the doctor is here.”

“No, Matias! Let’s go like everyone else. They’re the smart ones. What if the bosses come for us next? What if they shoot us?”

“Teresa, por favor. We are not going anywhere. Nobody is going to shoot us.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Put your stuff back. We are staying. The girls can go back to school tomorrow until we can find another job.”

“What? No. Please Papa! Not school.”

“Yes Gabriela. You go back to school. I want a better life for my girls than this.”

She stomped three paces into the room she shared with her sister, slamming the door once she squeezed inside. Teresa sighed a heavy sigh, pressing her fingers into the bridge of her nose.

“Matias. I don’t feel good.”

“Sit.” He gathered her elbow and led her to their armchair, covered her with a wool blanket. “We will figure this out.”

“Si.” And she shut her eyes.

He felt useless away from the fields, his hands itching for something to do. He fiddled with the truck for most of the afternoon, covering his mouth with a wet handkerchief to keep out the smoke, tucking in a fresh spot of tobacco underneath. He walked to the corner of the farm twice more just to watch the fire, mesmerized by its sheer size and power. He spit in the dust, burying it with the toe of his boot. 

By the end of the day the fire had burned itself out, leaving vast acres of ash and smoldering spots as far as Matias could see. There was not a single berry to be picked. And that night as he lay atop the smoke-tinged sheets, he heard the last of his neighbors drive away.