Refugees: A Short Story of Survival

  Copyright © 2011 by Sean Sweeney

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated. Re-selling this eBook without permission is punishable by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ***

  Urged by the news that the Yellowstone Caldera’s explosion had already affected half of the country, those immediately east of the mighty Mississippi chose to leave their homes to the coming devastation. They chose their lives over property, their possessions. Tears were shed and strong words were said. Those with strong heads on their shoulders saw the images from California, of buildings crumbling under the weight of ash. Of the Hollywood sign sliding off the Santa Monica Mountains, its twisted steel letters darkened and virtually unrecognizable. That made the decision all the more easier for them: Head as far to the east as you can, as quick as you can.

  En masse, they came over the Appalachians like ants to a picnic.

  Some never made it. The encroaching ash fell at such an alarming rate that it stranded motorists and their families on interstates. They moved no further.

  Those that made it past the initial onslaught of deadly ash, though, were clearly troubled despite their survival; those last in the Conga line of cars prayed and thanked God for delivering them out of this hellish situation, albeit for the present. But irrational thought soon took over the minds of many: their lives had been viciously interrupted. Separation anxiety kicked in; teenagers did not know where their friends were, or if they were still alive. The same went for extended families.

  For the majority of the survivors’ escape, stops along the way were minimal. Parents discouraged potty breaks for the mere fact that stopping meant extraneous waits to get back onto the highway and into the flow of traffic. Cellular service was spotty at best. Radio stations, though, brought news to the weary, frightened travelers.

  Some thought it was best if the radios stayed off.

  “Cities such as Cincinnati, Detroit, and Chicago in the north all the way south to Dallas, Houston, and New Orleans are reporting total losses. Lookout spots across the eastern seaboard have captured images and have sent them across the Internet; some have caused panic. The White House has requested that cities along the coast, from Portland, Maine to Miami, prepare to receive survivors within the next 12 hours. Experts believe that the ash will be diminished significantly on the east coast, but ash accumulation in those areas will be minimal at best for the next few weeks.”

  Those old enough to remember Hurricane Katrina and the aftermath shuddered, their bodies shaking ever so slightly. They stared ahead at the long line of tail lights.

  If they had yet to get out of Dodge, they thought, their eyes brimming with tears, there was no chance of rescue, no chance of government aid. They wiped their tears aside and kept driving.

  Cries of “Oh no!” echoed about the cars, as light flurries of ash had caught up with them. The smell of fear, the fear of the ash burying them alive, or worse, of suffocating under cubic tons of volcanic waste, clung to the windows and the upholstery. Bodies stank with perspiration. Those in command of their respective cars told their passengers not to panic, even though their knuckles were bone white as they grasped the steering wheel.

  The race for survival continued.

  ***

  Carly Simmons rushed from the Government Center subway station across the red bricked plaza to Boston City Hall. Her black heels clicked as she power-walked, nearly knocking over a tourist staring at a map in his hands.

  “Hey, look where you’re going!” the tourist barked.

  “Sorry,” Carly replied. She dug out her BlackBerry and dialed the special number. It rang twice. “Carly here. I’m a few minutes away from meeting with the mayor. What’s the status on the ash?”

  Carly listened intently before she asked, “Have you seen anything on the satellite pick-up about survivors?” She listened for a few seconds, biting her lip. A pigeon crossed her path. “Alright, so they’ll be here soon. I’ll call you back after I meet with the mayor.” She hung up and resumed her power walk.

  She showed identification as soon as she came to the gate on the northern side of the building. The guards let her in without a second look. Carly thanked them with a smile, even though she had no time for such pleasantries.

  The storm approached.

  Carly found her way to the mayor’s office. She didn’t even knock. She walked right in.

  The television blared reports from Washington, with a picture-in-picture showing devastation from Denver; the picture was fuzzy, as it came from a web-based camera. Every eye in the room stared at the footage, not knowing someone else was in the room until Carly cleared her throat.

  “Can I help you?” the receptionist asked after she turned to the visitor.

  “My name is Carly Simmons. I’m an aide to the president. I must speak with the mayor at once.”

  “He’s in a meeting right now –”

  “Meeting’s over,” Carly demanded. The receptionist jumped. “The president wants me to direct the planning for the coming refugees.”

  “That’s what they’re meeting about, though.”

  “Which way?”

  The receptionist pointed through the closed door.

  Carly didn’t wait for an invitation. She walked past the woman and barged in.

  Around a conference table, people argued. Fingers pointed every which way. Maps and blue prints littered the table, along with Styrofoam Dunkin Donuts cups and slivers of strudel.

  Carly sought out the only well-known face, that of the mayor. He sat at the end of the table, amid the hubbub surrounding him. Carly saw he gave up trying to keep order in his own conference room: He rubbed his temples, as if a headache settled on the sides of his skull.

  I came just in time, Carly thought. She walked to the table and slammed her briefcase on it.

  Everyone jumped. The mayor groaned a tad.

  “I hope I’m not disrupting something important,” Carly said. A slight grin crossed her face.

  “Who the hell are you?” the mayor said.

  “I’m Carly Simmons from the president’s staff. I’m here to direct refugee movements. The rest of you can skidaddle; you’ll receive orders soon.”

  The others began arguing to her – not with her, as Carly disregarded each in turn. She finally whistled, cutting off their bitching and moaning.

  “This is officially a federal matter now, boys and girls. The president requests you follow my lead. Homeland Security is aware of what’s going on, and they’ve monitored the flow of traffic headed east. People are coming, and Boston has to be ready. These people will need places to stay, and no, they can’t afford a hotel for the rest of their lives. Now if you’ll excuse the mayor and I, we have a lot to discuss.”

  A lot of grumbling followed the department heads out the door. The last one out turned and flipped her off.

  Carly simply waggled her fingers up by her face as the door shut.

  “Thank God you came when you did,” the mayor said. He stood up and walked to his desk; he retrieved two aspirin and chased them with water. “Those people were going to be the death of me; or at least my mind. What’s the situation?”

  “Survivors are coming in droves. They’ve clogged the highways. It’s expected that people will try to get off the highway at the first exit that isn’t backed up for miles. That means Sturbridge, Auburn, maybe even Mill
bury. It is possible to close the exits and just corral as many as we can into Boston; the president is on the phone with the governor now, and he’s trying to get that into effect. There’s loads of open space here: City Hall Plaza, the Public Gardens, Fenway Park, the Garden. We have to set up tent cities in the open areas and try to cordon off areas inside the Garden. We want to avoid any Katrina-esque incidents.”

  “It’ll be like 1978 all over again,” the mayor muttered, referring to the unexpected February blizzard that stranded fans inside the old Boston Garden during the Beanpot hockey tournament. “What are we going to do about food? How are we going to feed all these people?”

  Carly frowned.

  “The first few weeks will be a stretch. Meat will go quickly, I suspect. So will milk and bread.”

  “That usually happens here; New Englanders hit the grocery store and clean out milk and bread when the weathermen call for snow flurries.”

  “But this isn’t just snow flurries, Mayor D’Angelo. This is a storm of not only people, but a storm that will change the fate of this country.” Carly paused, as if choked up. She took a deep breath. “As I was saying, the first few weeks will be a stretch, but as soon as we get a full count of how many people survived, we can re-route government-supplied food to the areas that need it most.”

  “You’re talking about a completely new census. That could take months, Miss Simmons. These people will starve within a single month.”

  “It is the president’s hope that it won’t take that long, which means that we’ll need to recruit people to handle the proper counts. We must do that immediately. We can’t let anyone settle in. Those counts are imperative. And until we can figure out which areas need the most food, it’s going to be strictly on a ration system. Grocery stores are going to be shut down for the time being; hopefully not more than a day or two.”

  “That’s not going to work. We’re going to have riots on your hands if you close the grocery stores; Bostonians are going to go nuts when they find out.”

  “It’s going to have to work, Mister Mayor. The government is taking a firm grasp; we’re not going to let this disaster get out of hand. We’ve learned from prior mistakes, and we’ll make sure it’s peaceable. The president has ordered all divisions of the military on stand-by; the remaining governors will probably follow the directives of the president and ready their respective national guard units.”

  D’Angelo sighed.

  “Where else did the president send people like you to?”

  “Every major city on the eastern seaboard will have a federal liaison.”

  “They obviously have reservations about what’s going to happen.”

  Carly nodded.

  “Mister Mayor, I’m going to be frank with you. We are just as scared about what’s going to happen as everyone else. This ash cloud has already killed millions of people, and it’s going to kill more; it has already destroyed farms and completely changed ecosystems. It means that food is going to be hard to come by; hell, even a packet of Skittles and a cup of coffee will be considered a luxury. We’re going to have riots over this, that I know, and the president knows that, too. He’s preparing to declare martial law to control the people; what remains of Congress won’t like it, especially the Republicans, but he’s having his people draft a bill to vacate elections for the time being. We have to calm the people and tell them they won’t starve, but –” Carly paused, biting her tongue.

  “But what?”

  “We’re hoping that some people do starve, and that the ash cloud buries more cars on the eastbound highways; that way, there will be more food for everyone else.”

  D’Angelo’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing, as if trying to find words.

  “That’s despicable,” he sputtered at last.

  “It is, but it could be the only way we’ll control the food distribution. We were lucky to get government-issued cheese and meat out of Los Angeles, San Francisco and Seattle before the ash cloud fully covered the west coast; those ships are taking a long way to get around the globe. It may be two or three weeks before they get here, if they get here at all; we can’t trust that they’ll have safe passage through the Indian Ocean. One of the ships that left Los Angeles may stop in Miami, if the captain chooses to take the Panama Canal. After that…” She let the thought hang perilously in the air.

  “Has the president reached out to other countries for aid? What can England or our allies do to help us?”

  Carly shrugged.

  “I’m not sure, sir. To be honest, I don’t think other nations want to help us; the Middle East would rather not spit on us if we were on fire, and a lot of other nations have taken a hand’s off approach when it comes to our suffering.”

  “And how much money do we give to those nations in aid? Can’t they give a little back to us in our desperation?”

  This time, Carly frowned.

  “I know. It’s sickening that no one can help us; the great, pompous super power is on its knees, and its celebration time everywhere else – but our experts think that the rest of the world will hurt by this, too; it means those who laugh will have a mouthful of crow to chew on. We just haven’t released it to the public yet.”

  The mayor began pacing. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if the headache moved to the center of his face.

  Carly saw the world on his shoulders, weighing the man down.

  “So we have to prevent anarchy from taking a hold of the people, and hope some people starve to death for everything to be alright. That’s not exactly how I envisioned this,” D’Angelo said.

  “I don’t think it’s actually what anyone had in mind, but we have to hope for the best.”

  D’Angelo sighed again.

  “Alright, Miss Simmons. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty.”