Porto,
Portugal. October 30, 1988
The lights flickered and went dark, that’s when it started. Luis reached up and
adjusted the bulb with his fingers. The hot glass burned his skin. He gritted
his teeth as the sensation grew stronger. He doubted the bulb was the problem.
The TV, fan and even the street light outside the apartment all died in the
same moment. “Is this normal for an earthquake?”
Car headlights flashed through the windows reflecting off Renata’s long, dark
hair. “It’s not an earthquake. They already said that.”
Luis let go of the bulb. Only a moment ago, the emergency broadcast system had
come on the air. It’s strobing red light, and high pitched siren blared through
every apartment. It was followed by men in lab coats being interviewed. They
warned everyone that something was coming, and before they could finish the
power cut out, the one thing they had said was, “it’s not an earthquake.”
The street outside the window was still lightless, and Luis went to check the
fuse box. It wouldn’t do much good. If the entire neighborhood lost power, it
clearly wasn’t a fuse, but at least it was something to do.
Renata took his hand. Her fingers trembled. “It’s not the fuses; it’s not our
lights. Let it go.” Behind her, the old cement walls were spidered with cracks.
They had been like that when they moved in.
“I don’t know what else to do.” He pressed
his lips together and looked out the window. Outside, a family loaded into a
car; the trunk overflowed as the father kicked at it until the latch held. They
piled in, each with a pack on their lap. The mother sat in the passenger seat. In
her hands, she held a pistol. Her husband got in, and the car roared to life. A
few people emerged onto the street carrying packs, or bags. They all headed
east, away from the coast. That’s where the scientist said it would start, on
the coast.
“The phone lines,” Renata’s voice wavered,
“They use a different power source than the electrical grid, right?” She wiped
at beads of sweat forming on her forehead. “For emergencies, right?” She
swallowed hard. “I’ll try and call my mom,” She picked up the receiver and held
it to her ear. The lines in her face deepened the longer she held the phone.
She frowned and jabbed at the disconnect lever several times. “The phones are
dead.” Her skin paled. “The phones,” she licked her dry lips, “are dead.”
Luis was still for a long time. Strange
muscles deep in his stomach twisted. Something terrible was happening, and he
couldn’t do anything to stop it. He didn’t even know what it was. There was a
worry in her soft brown eyes; he wanted to protect her, keep her from feeling this
way. He walked over and put his hand on Renata’s cheek then kissed her. “We’re
leaving.”
She nodded towards the bags they’d started
to prepare midway through the broadcast. “Do you think this will be enough?”
She rested her head on his chest.
The electricity surged back, lights blazing
to life. The TV flashed it’s red warning again. After a moment, it changed to a
camera feed from inside a helicopter. A reporter bobbed in and out of the
frame. “We’re flying over the city of Vila de Conde, only a few kilometers from
Porto.” He pointed to something off camera. “While it
seems a much weaker force is headed this way, it will strike here first. That
should give us some idea of what to prepare for.” The wind whipped his hair
wildly and drowned his voice out. The camera focused in over the ocean. White
edges of curling waves shifted as they crashed against the shore. City lights
reflected on the water; then the whole city blinked out. “What the hell?” The
camera jerked up over the blackened city. A loud guttural cry screeched through
the TV speakers, and the reporter's voice shouted, “What in God’s nam—” The
image on the TV shook and rotated like someone dropped the camera, then the
screen cut to static.
Every beat of Luis’ heart pounded in his
chest, teeth, and fingers. He waited for the static to end, for someone to come
back, to tell them what happened.
Renata grabbed his hand; her pulse was
rapid; throbbing in the vein on her neck. When she spoke, the words sounded
strange like her mouth was dry after hanging open for too long. “What’s
happening?”
Through the window, they saw a car slam into
the small market across the street. Glass shards toppled down and shattered on
the hood. Two men got out and kicked at the remaining jagged edges. With sacks
in their hands, they hustled inside and filled the bags with food and supplies.
They tossed them into the backseat and doubled back for more. A box of
spaghetti fell out of the passenger side and burst open. Noodles splayed out on
the pavement, breaking under the boots of the men as they hurried back and
forth.
“I need to get something.” Luis rushed to
the bedroom and pulled a pistol from under the bed. He loaded it and placed
several ammo boxes in a bag before returning to his pack in the living room.
The static on the screen finally ended. A
news anchor sat at a desk; sweat dripped down his face. He wiped at his brow.
“It’s clear now, from this footage.” A small image on the side of the screen
grew larger. It was a distant shot of the city of Vila de Conde. The entire coastal
edge was gone. The hotels, resorts, beach houses. All gone. Some bits of rubble
smoldered in the darkness. “This has been some sort of attack.” He stopped, and
his face became stern. He sprayed saliva as he shouted at someone, “I can’t …
God damn it … I can’t say that on TV. No one will believe it!” He shoved the
desk over and stood; then turned and walked a few steps towards the back of the
set.
A husky male voice came from off screen. “Do
you believe it?” There was a pause, but the anchor kept walking. The husky
voice spoke again, pleading this time, “Someone has to tell them. They have to
know.” He yelled with urgency in his voice, “We saw them!”
The newscaster stopped and looked over his
shoulder at the camera. “Tell them to run.” He disappeared off camera, and the
screen went to static.
The lights flickered a second time, then
went dark. Luis held his hand over his mouth. He stopped breathing for a moment
and counted his heartbeats. He waited, but the lights didn’t come back.
With heavy packs strapped to their backs,
Luis and Renata staggered into the street towards their car. A traffic jam
built up behind the vehicle that had crashed into the market. People dashed
inside, stealing food. The narrow European street
swelled with a growing mob as they disembarked their cars to investigate the
problem.
A man got into the obstructing car and
attempted to reverse out. The center of the frame teetered on the curb, and the
wheels spun over the slick cobblestones.
A massive man with a thick beard exited his
truck. “What’s wrong with you?” He thrust crude gestures with his hands, then
stopped and summoned the other stalled drivers to the stranded car. He
pantomimed his intention.
Seven men gathered around the small European
car and tipped it onto its side, but the vehicle still blocked the road. They
shoved and kicked, but the road wouldn’t clear. Thick-beard threw up his hands,
gathered his gear from his car and started walking.
Luis’s eyes widened. “I don’t understand
it.”
“Do you need to?” Renata gripped his
shoulder, the tips of her nails bit into his skin. “They told us to run.”
Abandoning their car, Luis and Renata joined
the panicked herd. They ran, shoved and bumped into each other as they
maneuvered around the empty cars. The weight of the pack made Luis unstable as
people jostled against him. As each person collided into him or reached out to
stabilize themselves, his balance wavered. The straps dug deep into his
shoulders. The heavy load labored his run. People were constantly pressing
past. He made Renata go first so he could keep an eye on her.
A tall man with wide shoulders shoved Luis
into the side of a car. He stumbled and grabbed the mirror to keep from
falling. Renata screamed. He turned as she plummeted to the ground a few feet
away, disappearing into the mad swarm of human bodies.
Luis surged forward ramming people until he
found her. He tried to help her stand, but the mob kept pressing forward, and
Luis fell on top of her. A foot crunched down on his hand; then a knee jabbed
into his ribs. Droves of people crashed against his body. His hair got caught
on something, and it ripped a patch from his skull. A trickle of blood dripped
from his scalp onto Renata’s face.
Luis pressed his lips to her ear. “The gun
is in my pack. Fire the gun.” He didn’t feel her searching the bag, too many
hands, knees, and elbows jabbed and thrust into him, but he heard the gunshot,
next to his ear. It thundered, and his whole body tensed. The thundering didn’t
end. His ear rang, and it felt like someone was trying to hammer a nail into
his brain. He saw Renata’s face, she was shouting, but he couldn’t hear her
anymore, couldn’t hear the crowd, the waves of pounding feet on stone, just a
high-pitched pierce in his ears.
The crowd stopped pressing down on him. They’d
backed away. He got to his feet. Renata still lay on the ground. Luis dragged
her into the bed of a truck. She cried and kept trying to say something, but he
couldn’t hear it. Her face flexed in pain. He scanned her body and saw the
ankle. Human bodies, human feet don’t bend like that. The tibia seemed to be
jabbing down through the foot, forming a large bulb at the bottom, and the
ankle swelled thicker than her leg.
The crowd swarmed back. Luis slumped down
beside her. His eyes lingered on her face, her eyes. She couldn’t walk, not on
her own. Whatever was coming would catch them. How will you take care of
her? Luis took the gun from her hands. He studied the pistol for a long
time, its dark oily finish, the weight of it in his hand, a weapon. If he couldn’t
run, then he would fight. He crawled out of the truck bed to the car just
behind. He rested the pistol on the hood and stared out into the darkness. Luis
saw the white curling waves. Whatever it was, came from the ocean, he knew
that. He waited a moment, watching the water, trying to see it. Nothing, just
darkness. He pulled the trigger then looked at Renata. Broken. Helpless. His
eyes welled up with tears. Fight. Even if you can’t see it. Fight. He
fired again, fired until the gun was empty.
