The screen changed. The new view showed a snow-swept city road lined with cars. Harsh orange light from streetlamps illuminated the scene. The image jostled violently as the person carrying the camera jogged.
“Beth?” Clare rubbed at the back of her neck. “What’s going on?”
She could hear what sounded like a different news broadcast in the background of Beth’s call. Beth was definitely crying now. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Cities are vanishing. I mean, they’re still there—we can see them—but no one can contact the people living there. Anyone who drives into them isn’t heard from again. They don’t know why yet, or what happened to them, or—”
Beth’s voice faded into the background as Clare focussed on her screen.
The reporter came into view. He was running, his grey hair sticking to his sweaty red forehead. “Up ahead is the so-called quiet zone.” He yelled to be heard over his pounding footsteps and ragged breaths. “Civilians in surrounding areas are being evacuated to Toronto. We are told that—”
He broke off as an explosion boomed in the distance. The camera jerked back as its bearer stopped running, and the screen swivelled away from the reporter’s shocked face and towards the skyline.
Flames bloomed above the silhouetted buildings. Red, gold, and ribbons of thick black smoke rose into the night. The reporter’s voice was uneven. “That—I think that was a plane. A plane just fell out of the sky. I, uh, the city’s power is gone. There may have been some kind of bombing. We are not sure yet. We’re going to try to—”
He looked over his shoulder. He seemed frozen. His body seized up as he stared at something beyond the camera’s view. Then he began backing away, motioning urgently to the cameraman. The frame swung to encapsulate the street behind them. Something was moving between the cars.
Then the frame changed again, this time exploding into a block of white as something bright arced across the sky like lightning. The reporter yelled incoherently. Then the camera tumbled, catching distorted fragments of the damp street and lightless buildings. A jagged line appeared across the screen as its lens broke.
Clare heard irregular footsteps followed by a cry. Then the streetlights above flickered and died, one by one, plunging the image into near darkness. That scene lasted for another thirty seconds. All Clare could see was starlight catching on the roofs of cars and the side of one building. Then the feed abruptly cut out.
The screen returned to the two stony-faced newsreaders. Neither spoke for a second, then the woman exhaled. “We are still waiting to reconnect communication with Greg Harrelson. Everyone here at QBC hopes for his safety and speedy extraction, as well as that of Thomas Strokes, who was operating the camera.”
Another stretch of silence filled the room. The woman shuffled, lifting herself an inch higher, and began speaking in a more energetic tone. Clare guessed someone must have been barking instructions into her earpiece. The man’s attention stayed fixed on the papers on his desk, his eyes dull.
“Some have speculated that this may be the beginning of World War Three. However, no country has claimed responsibility for the attacks at this time. We now have an updated list of quiet zones, as reported by social media and our sister stations in other countries.”
A map displayed on the screen. Large patches of red had been painted across it, signalling the dead areas. Clare bit her knuckle. The colour was spread across the globe—the US, the UK, Australia, Russia, Africa, East Asia. Some patches were small. Some would have covered tens of thousands of kilometres.
The woman began reading the names of areas that had lost contact. Clare finally realised that Beth was still talking into her ear.
“Clare, please, are you there? Say something.”
“I’m here.” She swallowed, leaning closer to the screen, trying to pinpoint the areas where she and Beth lived. She found their nearest city. It was red. But mercifully, the colour hadn’t encroached into the countryside yet.
“The uncontactable areas are spreading.” Beth’s voice was thick with tears. “And new ones keep appearing. Two news stations have already stopped broadcasting. The hosts were talking one minute, then the next, it was just static. I thought it was a joke at first. But Clare… maybe my bunker…”
“Yeah. Okay.” Clare rose out of her seat. “I’m on my way.”
She put the phone on speaker and tucked it into her front pocket as she jogged through her house. She hauled two large travel cases from her closet then began throwing clothes and toiletries into one. Her brain felt as though it were buzzing, and she struggled to think through what needed to be brought. Clothes would be important. A couple of novels, too, to stop the boredom from setting in. She grabbed two off her shelf indiscriminately. She left her technology—laptop, kettle, and hair dryer—where they were. The bunker’s power supplies would be limited. She couldn’t afford to bring things that would drain it. All the while, the humming living room TV blended into the fragments of news stories floating through the phone.
Clare hauled the luggage—one empty, one full—out into the living room. She then flipped the spare case open in the kitchen and began dredging her nonperishable supplies into it. “Have you spoken to Marnie yet?”
“No.” Bethany’s voice crackled, and Clare had to strain to make out what she said. “I phoned you first.”
“Call her. Let her know what’s happening. I’ll pick her up on my way through. There’s room for a third person in the bunker, isn’t there?”
“Yes. But she’s nearly two hours away from you.”
“It’s fine. It’s not even really that much out of my path. Call her. Make sure she’ll be ready.”
“All right.” The phone beeped as it was disconnected. Clare had filled the luggage case with as much food as it would hold and hauled it through the front door.
Her little red car waited outside. She hadn’t changed its wheels yet. There had been traces of frost and even one thin dusting of snow but nothing significant. The sky was clear. She didn’t think she would encounter any difficulties on the road to Bethany’s.
Both sets of luggage went into the back seat. She opened the car’s boot then ran back inside for the water. As she passed the TV, she kept one eye on the reports. The anchors were discussing the likelihood of chemical warfare.
She wanted to stay and hear what they said, but Beth had sounded frantic. The drive to her sister’s house would take five hours if the roads were clear. She could listen to the news on the way.
Clare dragged two large water jugs outside. As she nudged the swinging screen door open, she was assaulted with a blast of chilled air. She looked up. The sky had been blue when she’d made her coffee. It had since turned a bitter grey.
She frowned at it as she heaved the water into the boot, then she returned inside for another lot. She probably wouldn’t need the snow tyres, at least not on the way to Beth’s. If she ended up staying for a while, a few days or a few weeks, she might need them to get home.
Clare warred with herself as she brought out the second set of water. Changing the tyres would waste time. But it might be a wise precaution, depending on how serious the situation turned out to be.
It felt surreal. She still held on to the idea that it might be some kind of misunderstanding. Some sort of elaborate April Fools’ prank at the wrong time of the year. Or maybe there was a simple explanation for it all. Broken communication satellites. A solar flare. Something. Because entire cities couldn’t just vanish.