Toby chokes and covers their mouth with their hands. Gracie cries and buries her face in Don's shoulder, and Don's hand swings out and grabs my pant leg. He stares up at me again, this time in tears. "Jim—in DC—"
I'm scrambling for my phone and so is Don. "You call Hannah—"
"You call Jim," Don pants. I look once to Alex, three times. His eyes are so round I think they're gonna pop out of his head. I swing my hand out for him, across Toby's chest, and grab him by the shoulder.
Alex leaps and nearly falls off the armrest, head whipping to me. "Go pack your shit up, now."
He's up in a flash just to trip, fall, and vomit on the tea-stained rug. Claire leaps into action, grabbing him under the arms and nearly carrying him to the hallway even though he's taller than she is now.
Jim won't pick up. "Fuck, calling Beth," I grunt to no one.
"Hannah's not answering," rushes Donovan, curled over his legs with his face in his hand. Gracie's got an arm around his shoulders.
Toby's up next, running for their phone on the counter. "I gotta call Maisie—"
They make it three feet when the TV cuts from the chaotic, bloody mess of the briefing room to a bright blue screen. A high pitch takes over the volume, and Gracie clambers for the remote to turn it down. The news flashes on, a live feed of the pentagon. It's in flames. Another explosion and there goes the west side entirely.
The United States has gone code black. I didn't even know we had that, don't know what it means. Don's pacing, hand in his hair. He says it means we're going to war with ourselves.
No clue who's filming the war zone in DC, no idea if it's our people reporting in or someone else showing off. My phone buzzes in my hand, and I tear my eyes down to look at the screen. Don's is going off like a Chernobyl siren, and so is Toby's.
Three Japanese bombs have just blown through New York. Two Russian bombs have taken out the Capitol. Chicago has been cratered by a UK made warhead.
The northern borders are weakened. Plagued civilians reported to be breaking through the gates by the thousands.
President Gershaw has approved retaliation missile strikes. Heading for Japan, London, and Russia.
The White Guild is our only option for survival.
Do not remain in your homes. Seek shelter.
God be with us.
Then it's sirens, and shouts, emergency vehicles with swirling lights blinding right into our window. All six of us are standing now, me leaning on Toby, in the middle of the living room. The yelling outside gets louder, turns into screams.
Don staggers for the door, and Alex begs him to keep it closed, but he swings it open, and we stare. We can only stare.
Lights streak across the deep purple sky. Missiles.
He turns to me and looks like death, "Meteor shower, Kevin."
My phone ringing in my hand startles me, and I answer it with trembling fingers, holding onto Toby for dear life.
"Oh my God—Beth, are you okay? Where's Jim, are you both safe? Are you safe, where are you?" I ask it all without remembering to breath.
I hear three words from her over the shrieks and crying and car alarms blaring in through the open door.
"Jim is dead."
YOU ARE READING
Starts with a Match
Horror"Most people in the units, especially here on the front lines where they're sick and bored of all this shit-they call them gluts. Gluttons. Ravenous, insatiable. Zombies. Can't be a zombie if they're still alive. Which they are. They're just starvi...
