Read Tourists of the Apocalypse Online
Authors: C. F. WALLER
Tourists of the Apocalypse
Tourists of the Apocalypse
A novel by
C. F. Waller
Copyright © 2016 by C. F. Waller
The right of, Charles F. Waller to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with The copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1988
ISBN: 978-1-5323-0089-9
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at
cfwaller.com
for links and book information
Acknowledgement
Thanks to God for making all things possible.
Thanks to my wife for giving me her love and support.
A special thanks the beta readers:
Marcie Erbes
Joanne Kay Waller
Leah Resko Aylward
Anita Farley-Herter
Table of Contents
Greetings prospective readers and welcome to my literary version of the apocalypse. This work is less about the end of the world and more about the people left to witness it. There is a bit of techno-babble involved. Rather than slow the story down to info-dump this on you later, let me share a bit of information regarding electromagnetic-pulse-weapons or more simply, EMP.
In 1962, the United States conducted a nuclear test, code named
Starfish,
over the Pacific Ocean. A small nuclear device was detonated in the upper atmosphere to test the effects of a high altitude explosion. To their surprise, the street lights went out in Honolulu, nearly a thousand miles away. The damage could have been far worse if not for the lack of electronic sophistication at the time. This is a vague was of saying no one in the sixties was holding an IPhone.
Let me give you an easy to understand analogy. You probably own a surge protector to keep a television or computer from being ruined in a thunderstorm. In that case, the lighting hits a power line and a pulse travels down the wires to your home. Without a surge protector, the increased voltage might leave you with a blank television screen or a computer that won’t boot up. Now let’s imagine that thunderstorm is an atom bomb.
When a small nuke is exploded in the upper atmosphere (25 miles and up) the radiation is amplified before it reflects back down. The
Starfish’s
tiny 1.44 megaton bomb had the effect of 10 kiloton explosion when released at altitude. When it gets back to Earth, the pulse will travel so fast your lowly surge protector won’t know what hit it. The nation’s power grids will amplify the pulse and send it into homes and businesses. Cars won’t run, phones won’t work, virtually every machine within range will cease to function.
Just hold on before you start digging a bomb shelter. What’s reflected back won’t hurt you. As a matter of fact, you probably won’t even notice it until you hit a light switch or open your refrigerator door. While this may be good news for flesh and blood machines, what’s left of your electronics is gone for good. Nothing is going to reset and you can’t replace any parts since all of the replacements sitting on warehouse shelves are likewise burned out.
Got the gist now? Let me share something even scarier. Our government is confident this could be used as a terrorist weapon. Very little sophistication is required to pull this off and a half a dozen countries already have the technology to accomplish it. It’s estimated that only three of these weapons launched from undetectable cargo ships could put out all the lights in the United States. Given this assessment, an even dozen EMPs could send the entire planet back to the time of George Washington.
In 2004, a study was turned over to our leadership laying out the dangers of EMP’s, and the precautions needed to limit our exposure to this type of attack. It’s unlikely you would have any knowledge of this. The report entitled,
Report of the Commission to Assess the Threat to the United States from Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) Attack
had the misfortune to be released the same day as the 9/11 Commission Report
.
I don’t need to tell you which one got the headlines.
You can Google the name of the report and read all 62 pages as a PDF file anytime you like. It’s public domain and no one is trying to keep you or our enemies from reading it. While this novel is science-fiction, all scenarios regarding EMP’s and the aftermath have been meticulously extrapolated from this document.
Tourists of the Apocalypse
is a work of fiction, at least for the time being. The opening section of the commissioned report ends with this optimistic quote.
“The current vulnerability of our critical infrastructures can both invite and reward attack if not corrected. Correction is feasible and well within the Nation's means and resources to accomplish.”
A dozen years hence, the United States has made no visible effort to sure up its civilian defenses and even less in the way of educating its people. We, the American people, are ostensibly helpless.
The not so distant future…
Just past the industrial park’s security gate a large sign lists possible destinations in color coded squares. Arrows, indicating which way to turn, run down the left side. The distance to each destination is noted in tenths of a mile. A half dozen company names are shown, but this is all pretext. Every business entity inside the gates falls under the Talus umbrella. My guess is that listing them this way looks less autocratic.
A bright yellow bar hovers over the pavement bringing traffic to a standstill. When I reach the front of the line, I lean out the window and swipe my ID card. My information displays on a small screen.
Lucille Givens, Engineer
appears under a horrific picture taken several years earlier. Despite the unflattering image, the bar rises and I am granted entrance to the castle.
Three streets down an orange sign reading
Physical Plant
points left. This title is a complete fantasy, but they wouldn’t want the politicians to know what goes on here. Don’t get me wrong, they aren’t building Ebola inspired bio weapons or hooking monkeys up to car batteries, but if word got out, picket signs would abound.
There is always a jobless hippie who doesn’t like what you’re doing
.
The road curves in a long arc around what appears to be a lake, but is in fact a man-made reservoir. Fluffy white swans paddle about the calm waters. A small sign warns passersby not to feed them, but not for the reason you might think. The swans are in fact complex holograms.
A florescent green bus passes coming from the other direction buffets my small car when it goes by. On the side of the bus the ironic slogan
The Future Is Now
is emblazoned in pink and yellow. In my opinion marketing got that wrong, but technically they don’t know what goes on here.
“If they did, then the side of the bus would read
The Future is Yesterday
.”
Past the reservoir palm trees dot the sides of the road set at mathematically even intervals. Light poles sit perfectly to the right of each tree. Everything is laid out as if it was a model train set in someone’s basement. Sprinklers suddenly explode from the curbs, tossing perfect arcs of liquid refreshment onto the manicured grass.
“Let there be water,” I recite in my deepest theatrical voice.
The main parking lot is only four rows wide, but it runs almost a hundred yards down the side of the massive building. There are a dozen handicapped spaces to the right of the entrance. I navigate the unfamiliar vehicle into the far left spot, as close to the front doors as possible. The car is my grandfather’s, an older model. In the rearview, I can see the sign pointing people to the satellite lot. I left my car out there and took the bus home last night, thus providing a getaway car.
“And, the satellite lot is well outside the blast radius,” I mutter, glancing around to see if anyone else is arriving.
Snatching up my huge purse, I push open the door and swing my legs out. I wiggle my butt to the edge of the seat, and then drop my shoes on the pavement. This car doesn’t have the additional handle installed forcing me to hook my hand around the window frame for leverage. With an abrupt jerking motion, I catapult myself out of the car, landing fairly gracefully in a standing position. Taking a moment to brush my dark slacks down to my ballet flats, I turn and slam the car door.
“Piece of cake,” I grunt, wiping off my palm on the back of my slacks then holding it next to the driver’s side window.
When I press my palm flat on the glass, a green glow flickers across it revealing a virtual numerical pad glowing on the surface.
“Beta, Gama, Delta, Kilo, Sigma, Beta, Zeta, Alpha,” a stilted voice emanating from the car drones on in an assertive tone as I press a fingertip on the numbers. It ends in a beep when all sixteen numbers have been entered. The automated voice is that of a woman which strikes me as odd.
Shouldn’t all bombs be male?
A red square flashes in the glass. Under it, a virtual button reading
Submit passcode
blinks in yellow. I press the tip of my index finger on the warm glass.
“Passcode accepted,” the voice informs me. “Would you like to lock out changes?”
“I would,” I assert, even though the car can’t technically hear me.
On the window there are two boxes now. A green one labeled
Setup complete
and a red one that offers to
Lock-out all further commands
. I tap the red one with satisfaction. The screen clears and then re-appears the same as before asking me to verify my choice. Again, I choose the red square.
“All changes are now locked out,” the woman announces. “Abort operation codes have been invalidated.”
A green square appears on the window with a countdown. The numbers are red and are depicted to hundredths of a second. The smaller numbers spin frantically counting down the time to activation. In the upper left corner, a box flashes over and over,
Abort codes have been disabled
.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Rapping my knuckles on the glass, the lights flicker off leaving no indication they were ever visible. I pat the roof off the car lightly and adjust the purse strap digging into my shoulder.
“God speed.”
I start to the front doors, limping only slightly. Three women who work on the first floor slow when they see me, but I wave them forward. Polite thanks and good mornings are exchanged before they plow ahead to the front doors. These gals are mostly unknown to me, although I have seen them before. I classify them as
Tier 5
, defined as
Geographic proximity is our only connection.
I trail along behind them, noting their clicking high heels. Long red fingernails are wrapped around takeout coffee cups. The off-white plastic lid on the closest gal’s cup has a pink stain around the hole where she’s been sipping.
How much does Talus pay the gals on the first floor?
With coffee being such an expensive commodity, I wait for work where it’s free. Seeing the vapid office personnel drinking from takeout cups chafes me. Even if I were so inclined, paying for offsite coffee on an engineer’s salary would be an exorbitant luxury.
Two towering glass doors shimmer blue in the morning sun. The building is mostly grey painted concrete block, but the facade on the front is four stories of gleaming glass. My reflection beams back at me as I observe the office gals filing through the door. I pick at my hair trying to imagine the time it would take to make mine as decorative as theirs. Cocking my head sideways, I notice my skinny body in the refection, covered by a cropped suit jacket and an oversize purse. I push at my bangs, which are cut straight across my eyebrows, leaving my green eyes barely visible. Straight black hair runs to my shoulders before curling in at the bottom, a style my mother insisted upon. Professional, yet not eye-catching she had deemed it. You want to look like you belong, but not like someone you want to get to know.
Be present, but forgettable.
Putting a hand on the door, I try and remember how long it’s been styled this way. My best guess is grade school.
Was it ever another style?
For the record, Mom seems to have been correct. People have never lined up to befriend the strange little gal with the limp. Letting go of the door, and this train of thought, I step inside.