Chapter 2: Mark of the Beast by Stephen Simpson
- Chapter Two -
Lydia opened her bleary eyes. Something felt different this
morning. She did not know what or why she felt this way. Something in her gut
told her that today was different than it was yesterday. She had a feeling of
trepidation on the pit of her stomach that something awful was about to happen.
As always, she kicked the duvet off her feet first, letting her toes test the temperature before she dared uncover her body fully. It was Christmas Day, which meant her mother had set the central heating to be on all day long since the crack of dawn. Her toes attested this to be true, and confirmed it was okay to discard her warm cocoon and to emerge into the world. It was warm enough.
As she got out of bed and walked across her room to her
bathroom, she could hear her dad curse loudly from somewhere in the house.
Well, it was not really a curse in the way everyday people would recognise
curse words. The worst words to ever leave Bill's mouth was ‘forcripeshake'.
Sometimes, Lydia considered that it sounded remarkably close to the actual cuss
word and if that was really the case, who was her dad fooling... Himself or
Christ. Lydia was sure Christ, being all-knowing, could not so easily be
fooled.
This morning her dad was griping about the TV service. “If
it's not one thing, it's another with this TV. All I want to do is watch the
news with my morning coffee. Is that just asking for too much? Always quick to
take my money, always slow on delivering service...”
Lydia decided to avoid the lounge for the time being. She
was still waking up and did not want to be dragged into her dad's complaint of
the day. Her dad listened to audio books on having a positive mindset, all day,
every day, but he was probably the most negative person she had ever come
across in all of her seventeen years.
Her mum, Cynthia, chimed in, “Bill. Switch it off at the
plug and wait five minutes. I'm sure it will reset the router.”
Bill pulled the TV cabinet away from the wall. “At least once
a month, Cynthia. Once a month I must pull this heavy box away from the wall
and unplug everything. We live in the twenty first century, or did I wake up in
an alternate universe this morning.”
Cynthia replied in her soft-spoken voice, “I know Bill, but
there’s nothing else to be done. It's the world we live in now. It's not the
good old days anymore and the quicker we realise this, the better for our
mental health. If we’re going to keep banging our heads against the non-customer
services of today compared to the customer service when people used to care,
we'll get nowhere fast. All we'll have for our efforts will be a sore head.”
Under his breath, Bill counted from one to five.
Cynthia told him, “Too fast. Five minutes, Bill. Not five
milli seconds.”
He sighed and checked the time on the clock on the wall
opposite the TV. It was 08:55.
Lydia let go of a long breath. Being seventeen with parents
in their fifties had its ups and downs. Her parents were overprotective, never
giving her a chance to find her own way. When she went out with her friends,
her mum and dad had to know where she was going, who she was going with, and
exactly what time she would be home. One minute late and her mum imagined that
she had been kidnapped and trafficked. Lydia guessed it was most probably
because they grew up in a different era where they perceived things to have
been safer, but Lydia thought that maybe it was never that much safer. It was
just that it was not so easy to get news back in the nineteen seventies. People
probably knew all about major news but news closer to home was, maybe, not so
easily accessible as a quick Google search these days. Her mum liked to say, ‘I
trust you, Lydia. It's other people I don't trust'. Lydia had a tough time being
independent and even though she knew her parents loved her immeasurably, and
was only concerned about her safety, she needed them and sometimes felt that if
something had to happen to them, she would have a hard time finding her feet to
be able to stand on her own two legs.
She pulled open the bathroom door, and multi-tasking, she
typed into the search bar: Why is there no TV this morning?
She stopped midway down the passage as her eyes scanned the
heading of the first search result. She shook her head a little. Not understanding
what was happening. “Mum. Dad? You should see this.” She walked faster. She
turned the corner into the living room just as her dad was bent over to plug
the router back into the electric outlet. Her mum turned to look at her. “What's
it? Have you made your bed before coming down?”
Lydia looked up from the phone in her hand. “They say it’s
the end of the world.”
Her dad still had his eyes focussed on the router, waiting
for the orange light to stop blinking and for it to turn into a solid green
light, showing there is internet and all the effort of unplugging, counting to
five, and plugging everything back in was worth the effort.
“Again? What’s happening now?”
Lydia did not want to listen to his rant, so she interrupted
him. “Six nuclear bombs. Six cities are gone, and billions of people are either
dead or injured.”
Cynthia stepped closer to Lydia. Her hand was stretched out
to take the phone.
Lydia pulled her phone further away.
“Let me see what it says,” her mum said.
“I'll read it for you.”
“No. Let me see.”
“Then get your own phone.”
“I don't have any data, and the Wi-Fi is wonky today.”
Bill pushed his hand in the back pocket of his trousers and
pulled out his phone. Holding the phone up, close to his face so that he could
read the tiny letters, he typed something on the screen. In silence, he read
whatever was on his screen and then with wide eyes, he looked up at Cynthia.
“It's true. Six cities on six continents flattened. Gone.”
Cynthia gasped and her hands came up to cover her mouth.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It's right here.”
Cynthia grabbed the TV remote from the coffee table.
Pressing buttons. “I want to see it on the news.”
The TV came on, but the digital TV box took a while to
reload after Bill had reset the router.
Cynthia stood still in front of the TV, waiting with a
nervous agitation radiating off her.
Lydia was swiping her finger up her phone to read all the
posts in her social feed. Just as she gave a loud gasp, the image of the news
presenter glared on the screen, and the sound was loud. Cynthia quickly pushed
the button on the remote to lower the volume.
At the bottom of the TV screen a large red banner with white
letters scrolled across from one side to the other. Breaking News: Six nuclear
bombs detonated in six major capital cities on six continents. KyRowen City.
Edysyn. Lindwhee. Arelbus. Ashebronjung. ArÃbails.
Millions are dead or injured.
The news presenter was saying, “John Longford from Heal Rheta,
a non-profit organisation for Rheta Peace told us earlier that those who were
not immediately killed, and in the path of the shockwave will be suffering
lacerations from fallen glass from tall structures, they will have broken
bones, and serious burns. It is believed that thousands are stuck under
collapsed buildings. Many will be blinded by the flash or deaf from the blast
wave. Streets around the city centres would be impassable due to rubble and
debris, and those who can escape are trapped. Hospitals will be levelled along
with other buildings, and medical professionals are either dead or injured. If help
does not arrive soon, many of these people will die from their injuries. Doctor
James Oxford told our reporter, Sarah March, earlier that even if there were
people in metro stations or standing in places where they remained unhurt or
unburnt, they will not be safe for very long. Soon a black rain with
radioactive ash and dust will start raining down over these areas covering
everything and everyone.”
The news presenter, Clarice, looked to the side as if someone
off screen was trying to get her attention. She made a small nod, barely
noticeable. Looking back at the camera, she said, “We are going over to the Government
Press Briefing Room, for a televised address by Prime Minister Foster.”
Cynthia took a few steps backwards until the back of her legs
knocked against the couch, and she sat down hard. “This is not happening. On
Christmas Day, of all days.”
“Mum,” Lydia said. “Any day would be a sad day for this to
happen, not just Christmas.”
“Just the other day, I read a news article that said senior
police officers warned the public not to let their guard slip during the
festive period, and it looks like we did,” Bill said as he sat down next to
Cynthia and took her hand into his.
They turned back to the TV when Prime Minister Foster took
the podium. He brushed his big, beefy hand through his unkempt dark hair and
cleared his throat. His red tie hung a little skew against his pale blue shirt.
“I just want to say we had a long discussion in cabinet for a couple of hours now.
It was a good discussion in which we agreed that the decision to send help is
extremely difficult and the arguments either way are very finely balanced
because we have millions of people dead on this Christmas morning,” he said
before looking down at his hands folded together on the podium in front of him
for a second or two. He looked back up at the camera. “There has been a total
breakdown of infrastructure in these six cities and their surrounding areas.
Roads are blocked, train tracks are twisted, and runways are cluttered with rubble.
Help will have a challenging time entering these disaster zones, and
radioactive contamination will make it risky to get too close. However, the
survivors all need food, clean water, and medical treatment...”
Bill said, “There’s no serious humanitarian response
possible to a nuclear explosion. It’s not like a flood or an earthquake, where
rescue teams can be sent to help. Who will risk nuclear contamination, and end
up with leukaemia to go and help those people?”
Cynthia bumped her shoulder against his. “Shush, Bill. I
want to hear what he says.”
The Prime Minister continued, “… experts have informed me
that within a one-kilometre radius of the blast, everyone will be dead with
more widespread deaths within a seven-kilometre radius. Up to thirteen kilometres
from the blast, survivors will have third degree burns, and other serious
injuries for up to twenty-one kilometres from the centre of the blast...”
Bill said, “No nation in the world is prepared to deal with
this. Those people are all on their own.”
“…This is a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions,” the
Prime Minister said.
Cynthia scoffed at the TV. “You think?” She looked at Lydia,
still standing in the centre of the room, her knuckles turning white as she
clutched her mobile phone at the side of her leg. “Are you okay, Lydia?”
Lydia had a shocked expression on her face. “Surely, we’re
going to send help?”
Bill said, “There’s no way anybody in their right mind is going
to go within thirty kilometres of those cities.”
“But we have to.” There was a stubborn tone in Lydia’s
voice.
“It’s up to the governments to decide, and by the excuses
Foster is making, there will be no help.”
The Prime Minister was saying, “…There are some
uncertainties with severity and the effectiveness of sending help and so on. We
agreed that we should keep the situation under constant review, following it
hour by hour, and unfortunately, I will have to say to the people that taking
further action to protect our people is paramount, but in the meantime what I
would say to everybody is to please remain calm. Our military and police are on
standby to prevent any terror attacks on our cities. There are still some
things we need to be clearer about before we go further, but I will have to say
to the Danglenan public that we will not exclude sending help and to do more.
Right, everybody. Thank you very much. Thank you.” He closed his folder on the
podium before he picked it up and walked off screen.
The news feed went back to Clarice, the news presenter in
the studio. “There will be another update from the Prime Minister in an hour.”
She turned in her seat to look into another camera. “In cities across the
world, looters have stormed retail outlets...”
Bill shook his head. “I’d understand if they were looting grocery
stores to get food and bottled water, but what are they going to do with a big
flat screen TV or twenty pairs of designer trainers?”
“That’s just the way of the world nowadays, Bill. There’s no
use getting upset about it and getting your blood pressure up. People find any excuse
to riot these days.” Cynthia stood up from the couch. “It’s sad that all those
poor, innocent people are dead, but I guess life goes on.” She sighed. “Christmas
lunch is not going to cook itself.”
“Whatever you’ve started there in the kitchen already smells
delicious.” Bill rubbed his palm over the small, extended bump where his
stomach was. He was tall and lean, except for the love handles on his hips and
his fleshy belly.
Cynthia gave him an endearing smile and left the lounge to
check on the roast in the oven. She was short and fit comfortably under Bill’s
arms when he held them up horizontally. Cynthia loved to refer to the both of
them as Laurel and Hardy, usually having a good cackle at her own expense.
Lydia sat down on the single couch across from her dad and
swung around so that her legs hung over the armrest. She wanted to open her
Chat app to see what her friends had to say about what had happened, but her
eyes were glued to the TV, and she could not look away.
It seemed as if the world had suddenly gone crazy. It was
supposed to be Christmas Day, a day of hope, love, joy, and peace. Instead,
what she was seeing in HD clarity was the destruction of shops, cars, restaurants,
state-owned institutions, and religious buildings. Sure, people were scared,
and they thought it was the end of the world, or, rather, that the end of the
world as they knew it was near its end. It looked as if the police were having a
tough time controlling the chaos as masses of people broke through barriers and
shop display windows to get to the luxury goods within. In Gonghonk, Pacetown,
and other cities across Rheta, the police had already tried using tear gas,
without any success.
Lydia felt an anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach. She
did not want to say it out loud, but she was afraid. Even though her parents
were carrying on as if it was just another day, just another Christmas, Lydia
felt that this might be their last Christmas. There was nothing concrete to
proof this or to say that this was the truth, but she felt it deep down. The
world would never be the same again. How could it? Millions of people were dead.
She had already calculated that their home was not within a
thirty-kilometre radius of Colony Dinta, should a bomb go off there but if a
bomb did go off there, Colony Dinta was the capital of Danglen. That was where
everything that was important was. What would happen to the rest of the
country, and her mum, her dad, and herself? Would it be like in apocalyptic
movies? In a year or two, would there be no processed foods and no clean,
drinkable water?
Clarise, the news reporter, appeared on screen again. “We
are going over to the Government Press Briefing Room for a televised address by
Prime Minister Foster.”
The image on the TV changed to an empty press room. Prime
Minister Foster entered the room from the back. He looked even more dishevelled
than he did an hour ago. He placed his large leather folder in front of him, and
then held his hands on either side of the podium. He looked straight into the
camera in front of him. “In cabinet, we’ve had a long chat with the Director
General of KI6, the internal counterintelligence and security agency. It is
believed the extremists who initiated this attack in six cities on six continents,
were members of an online group disguised as a book club. The security agency
has gained access to this group page and are communicating with security
agencies across Rheta to apprehend these individuals. It is known that the
group comprised of six members. There is proof that there is an audio book
available to download in the group, and records shows it was downloaded by all
six members. The security agency believes the audio book had subliminal messages.”
His one hand let go of the podium, and he turned slightly to
the side, still looking straight into the camera as if he wanted to convey
confidence and that he knew what he was doing. He said, “At the moment there is
no proof of any more terror attacks on any other cities, but all army personnel
and police officers across Rheta are on standby regardless. I want to say to
the public to stay calm, to stay at home, and not to panic.” He nodded a little
nod. “Thank you.” He picked up the folder that he did not even open from the podium,
turned around and walked back in the direction from where he came.
Bill sighed a long breath. “Is that it?”
Lydia asked, “Like what kind of subliminal messages?”
Bill said, “I’ve read about it, it’s called auditory subliminal
messages. The words are blended in with louder music in a way that they can’t be
heard.”
“So, they were listening to certain kinds of songs?”
“I guess it wasn’t music. It must’ve been an audio book
because they were all in a book club of sorts, or maybe it was one of those
music tracks that plays relaxing music like the sound of rain or waves crashing
on a beach.”
Lydia frowned. “But if they couldn’t hear the messages, what
difference does it make if they listened to the audio or not?”
“Subliminal messages are messages that your conscious mind
cannot hear. These messages are only heard by your subconscious. I guess it’s
like all those online videos that promise to change your life if you listen to
the audio while you sleep but it turns out this audio had a more sinister
intention.”
“I’ve seen adverts where they promise you the moon and the stars
if you download and listen.”
“Yes, and some people are gullible enough to listen to
anything, and other people have no moral code and can upload harmful things that
these trusting people will listen to. If you want my opinion, one should not be
listening to subliminal messages from a free video.
Cynthia leaned her head around the doorframe. “Did they say
they’re going to send help to those poor people?”
Bill turned to look at her. “Nope. They’re distracting us
with rioters and subliminal messaging craziness.”
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