Melani Schweder
as Corine Channell
72 HOURS TILL DOOMSDAY
1. March 6, 2017. 9:22 A.M. London, England
The central waterways office was filled with an ominous quiet that Monday morning. Every employee had yet to begin work; instead, they all leaned against the stained blue cubicle dividers, eyes glued to the television mounted on the wall, and although Gregor was a particularly diligent man, he couldn’t resist getting swept into the gathering.
You could almost smell the terror hanging in the stagnant air as the news reports ticked along the screen, like someone was reading off a prison sentence. Every word that emerged was a fang, all strung together into sharp and biting sentences, sinking deeper into the beating hearts of the men and women of the Battersea Water and Power.
“Gregor, hey.”
It was a familiar face, the deeply lined one belonging to his best friend Arthur. A steady hand landed on his shoulder with more weight than usual.
“Hey.”
“How are you holding up?”
“Oh, I’m okay. Did I tell you that Alice lost her job?” Arthur nodded, and Gregor continued. “Yeah, they closed the school on Friday. I’m just not sure what to make of all this, you know? I think everyone might just be overreacting.”
“I don’t know, G. In all my fifty-three years, I’ve never seen things this bad. Some may say it’s rubbish, but I’m starting to believe otherwise. Three more countries declared financial ruin just this morning.”
“What about us?”
“The minister keeps saying we’re fine, that the markets are just adjusting. But if you’ll notice, the BBC is only showing half the story.”
“Like those two banker suicides last week?”
“Right. They’re not talking about that. Or the riots over in Chelsea. Conveniently ignoring those.”
“Yah. I just hope this will all blow over.”
“Me too, G,” he let out a heavy sigh, “I just have a funny feeling that it won’t.”
Their eyes had glazed over, empty stares of men whose minds were too busy predicting the future to absorb the present. The screen was repeating the same cell phone video footage captured at the Hyde Park riots, the same frightened faces popping in and out of the frame, their yells like a skipping soundtrack.
“Okay, everybody, let’s get to work please,” came a brusque declaration from their manager.
Some people shuffled slowly to their cubicles, their feet stuck in an invisible syrup. The entire office had already been infected. It was too late. Every soul was too distracted to accomplish much that day; they were much too busy texting loved ones underneath their desks, rearranging their files trying to look busy, planning their escapes in one form or another.
Gregor hung his head, no different from the rest.
2. March 6, 2017. 3:38 P.M. Istanbul, Turkey
The meeting had gone much worse than planned. Three investors had pulled out, and one had been absent due to a hostage situation in Damascus. The imported beer and catered lunch had done nothing to ease the tensions in the men’s minds, their fists held tightly, their brows furrowed. The future of Altan’s company was not looking good, and every person in his office could feel it. It was like the expansive glass windows were clouding over, the leather sofas threatened to swallow them whole, and every bottle of fine filtered water contained a poison more deadly than they could imagine. This tenuous life of luxury was starting to feel like a prison.
“Eda, call my wife. Tell her I’m coming home early.”
“Yes sir.”
The sandstone facade of his home was glowing beautifully in the fading light, but he was far too preoccupied to enjoy it. The turquoise tiles threw tiny tinted reflections at him, some caught in the palm trees, some littered the walkway. His wife was a vision between the teak double doors, her white linen dress blowing in the breeze, her fingers playing nervously with the iron detailing. Little did he know, there weren’t many of these sunsets left.
“Altan!” she called, her bare feet gracing the stone patio. Two tiny figures broke out from behind her, bounding towards him.
“Baba! Baba!” they squealed as he scooped them into his arms.
He kissed the tops of their heads, inhaling the cinnamon from their ebony hair. He wanted to squeeze them tight, hold them safely forever, lost in their smells and sounds. The warm air plucked at their tunic sleeves, brushing their noses and eyes with sand.
“And how are my mischievous children today? Have you been bothering your mother? Fatma? Fahri?”
The twins shifted their eyes to the ground, the corners of their mouths smiling at one another.
“No!” they giggled in unison.
“Good, good. I would hate to lock you outside for the lions to eat tonight!”
“Baba! No lions!”
He stood, brushing the sand from his hair, and kissed his wife.
“Sule. My queen.”
“Come inside. Tell me what happened today.”
“I will. But first, I need my raki.”
“Baba! Let’s swim!” Insistent hands had taken hold of each of his, pulling him towards the door.
“Baba can’t swim today. He’s tired. You swim yourselves. Just be careful of the sharks!”
Sule laughed a delightful laugh, carried on the gentle wind. But she knew that something wasn’t right with her husband. She could feel the alarm rising from his skin, could smell it on his breath. They settled into their spacious den after sending the twins off to change into their swimsuits, their maid following in attendance. He poured himself a drink from their bar, mixing the milky white liquid with water. Lion’s milk, they called it, the milk for the strong. He definitely needed that strength today.
“Altan, tell me what’s wrong.” She tucked her feet underneath her, smoothing out her dress.
“Just something strange today. You remember the meeting I was supposed to have?”
“Yes. The one with foreign investors? You were going to make an oil trade agreement.”
“Yes. Except half of them pulled out of the deal. One of them didn’t even show up. Apparently he is being held hostage.”
“What?”
“In Damascus. Rebels have surrounded his home.”
“Oh.” Her slender hand rested on her mouth. “What can we do?”
“I’m afraid it’s too early to tell, Sule. The markets here are unstable, and soon the Americans will follow. I have a feeling we are in for some tough times ahead.”
“Yes, but we’ve survived those before. And look at us now.” She waved around the expansive room, the heirloom rugs and gilded mirrors hushed in her presence.
“Yes I know. We’ve had many successes,” he took a sip from his sweating glass, “but honestly, I have a bad feeling about this time. There are tanks in the square, and I passed several combat vehicles on the way home. People are getting frightened.”
“Should I be frightened too?”
“Not yet my love. Not yet. Let’s see what this week will bring.”
She gave him a wan smile and rose from the sofa. She held out her manicured hand.
“Let’s go out and join the children. At least enjoy the night.”
“Very well.”
They walked out towards the back patio, a mosaic tile terrace surrounded by lush palm trees, just as the hanging lanterns began switching on. The swimming pool was shimmering turquoise and amber, ripples of water emanating from the two rambunctious kids playing. Their attendant, a young woman in a blue headscarf, sat quietly on the edge of a padded lounge chair, her eyes fixed on them, constantly assessing their safety. She nodded when Altan and Sule made their appearance and settled into lounge chairs of their own.
As the sun gently dipped under the horizon and the sky faded to black, they could see a smattering of orange flames dance in the distance. The soft rumblings that followed, slow and deep like thunder, told them what was coming. Coming straight for them.