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  AFTER

  Boris Karpa

  Copyright Boris Karpa, 2017.

  This book is dedicated to Mechthild Czapp, who provided me much-needed advice and support throughout the writing of this book, and continues to be my faithful friend even now.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  PART TWO.

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  PART THREE

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Foreword

  I have finished the first draft of ‘After’ in November of 2011. In writing the novel, I made my best effort to familiarize myself with the facts of survival training, tactics, and nuclear war strategy. I imagine every author does this. Today I realize that some of the material I relied upon in this research is probably controversial, and some of it outdated. We live and we learn. I ask my reader not to judge me by the realism of this novel – it is aimed primarily to entertain. I do not claim to be some great judge of human character, nor to share some insight into the mysteries of the soul, or some such great issue. I seek only to entertain my reader, and I hope that you will be entertained. It is likely that the total nuclear apocalypse described here will never occur in real life – just like the zombie apocalypses, dragon apocalypses, and time travel adventures in other stories by other, better authors. If, however, you enjoy reading about it, I will have accomplished my goal in writing this. If, moreover, the book inspires you to become better prepared for the sort of ‘mini-apocalypses’ that occur during almost every person’s life, then I would have done better than my wildest expectations.

  Prologue

  Perfection was not very big – perhaps a few thousand people. It was considered to be in 'the edge of nowhere' even by the people who lived there, and those people who did not live there were likely not to know about it. It was in every way like hundreds of other small towns across America.

  As it sometimes happens, the borders of the town included not only the people in the town itself, but also some of these people that lived nearby. Scattered around the town were several dozen houses – mostly farmhouses. Some of them were home to some retiree that decided that living out his last days in a quiet place was a good idea. Yet others were abandoned – if you were rich, you normally used your money to leave Perfection, not to buy a mansion there.

  That said, one house was special. It had been abandoned for years and years – a three-story brick hulk, standing upon a high hill about half a mile from the edge of the town. It was not difficult to see why it was a hard sale – despite being a red brick house, it was built as a mix of several architectural styles, and as it often happens with such mixes, ended up ugly as sin. And yet, about three years before the events of this story, the house was bought, and a man far too young for retirement moved into it.

  Originally, it was bought by an out-of-town real estate company. The company representative was a strange man – overweight, bald, sporting a beard and wearing something like military fatigues. He looked the place over, making notes, and then bought the house and the hill it had stood upon.

  Then, another man bought the house. His coming was announced by phone calls to several of the town's businesses. Within the month, the house was rigged for Internet. A large garage was built next to it. Then, two trucks, bearing the logo of an out-of-town moving company brought in an impressive quantity of – nobody quite knew what. Sure, a lot of it was books and furniture, but a lot was unknown, and obviously heavy stuff in large, and completely nondescript, boxes.

  After that, a trickle of boxes continued to arrive for the rest of the year, even after the new owner appeared in town. With the exception of two or three people in the town – the local pastor, the judge, and sometimes the owner of the local sporting goods store, the man talked to no one. It was almost as if he was not there at all.

  And yet the door of the old house had been replaced, and a new door appeared, wearing a polished brass plate. It said, simply:

  EDWARD GRIFFITH

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Alice was the pride of her family. At 17 years old, she was what most people would call a child prodigy. She scored at the top of all the important tests, solved complex mathematical problems in her head so fast her teachers said she was cheating – and when they realized she wasn't, they decided that Perfection was too small for her. This was just as Alice wanted.

  Alice never really liked Perfection. Perhaps it was because she had never been a pretty girl. Her face had never quite fit the Hollywood mold – as a matter of fact, it was a little bit too wide. Her hair was a dirty shade of red, and her chin was a bit too square. Add to this the fact she was never too good at any sports, couldn't see worth a damn without a pair of heavy-framed, thick-lenses glasses, and you'll soon understand why school in Perfection wasn't much fun for little Alice, and why her life's ambition was summarized by getting the hell out.

  And so, when Alice hit 16, her parents decided to apply her for a special program that the state university had for gifted children. So it was that Alice Greenly, the daughter of the town judge, started learning for an undergraduate degree in aerospace engineering.

  Judge Arthur Greenly was immensely proud, of course. Within the Greenly family, every email from Alice was a cause for heated discussion – Arthur would print it out, after some inevitable struggle against the elderly computer, and read it at the table, and then recount the details to his friends in passing conversations.

  Alice, in the meanwhile, was reaffirmed in her conclusions – Perfection was a 'hick town', and she didn't want to come back to live there. Naturally, in her year in college, Alice picked up a lot of notions that the older (and often, less intelligent) students had about life – which only reinforced her dislike of her home town. The only thing good in Perfection, according to Alice, was her family, and even they were a little bit on the hick side, if you know what she meant. 'Why, my big brother and Dad hunt. No, not photo-hunting. They actually go out and shoot stuff'. She was now determined that one of the side-benefits of her chosen career was that it would one day get her a job and a home far, far away from Perfection.

  In the meanwhile, she still had to come back there for the summer. So Alice arrived with a heavy bag of books – to revise for the fall term – a set of biking clothes and a mountain bike bought at the best store.

  Her routine was set. Every morning, she would get up in the early morning and take the bike for a long ride on the far outskirts of the town, waving to her father's acquaintances as she passed their houses on her bike. She would ride several miles out of the small town, turn back and go home. Then, breakfast, four hours of study, and then rest – which consisted of a steady diet of books and Internet. The latter had the Greenly family a bit concerned, but as she was actually studying – “As opposed to what some of the other town kids are doing at her age, Martha” – they generally didn't complain.

  There was only one cloud on Alice Greenly's horizon, and it was that cloud she was pondering as she pedaled out of the town. The cloud's name was Edward Griffith.

  To be sure, Griffith hadn't done anything to really cause Alice a problem. He would appear, about once a week, at her parents' house, to eat dinner with her family. Afterwards, he would go up into Judge Greenly’s room and spend several hours having a chat with her father. And, like many of her father's other friends, he came out and waved to her as her bicycle passed his house.

  And yet, in Alice's mind, Griffith was so far tagged with one word: creep. Sometimes, in the middle of a dinner conversation with her father, Griffith would glance at her in a very... particular way. The way his eyes tracked her, almost wistfully, as she passed the house, reaffirmed her suspicions. Griffith, she concluded, was very possibly a creep. But she decided that this was a silly reason to change her biking route.

  And so it happened that on that morning, as in all mornings, she was taking her bicycle past Griffith's house.

  At first, she didn't notice him – he wasn't standing near his fence or waving her from the top of the small hill where his house stood. By the time she noticed him, it was too late.

  Griffith was on the road, straight in front of her.

  He was taller than her – in fact, he was unnaturally tall and thin, standing there in something like military fatigues. He wore a neatly trimmed beard, glasses, and she was about to hit him.

  She tried to swerve neatly to move past him.

  “Alice! Stop! Get off the bike! Now!”

  She stopped, looking at the man, puzzled, resting one foot on the pavement – “Excuse me, Sir? What -” She didn't like Griffith, but she was concerned that a genuine emergency. And perhaps, after all, she was wrong about him.

  “Get off the bike!” – Griffith roared, suddenly, as he grabbed Alice and literally yanked her off her bicycle. I wasn't wrong about him.

  She struggled as he pulled her uphill – biting, kicking, scratching at everything she could reach. The man was stronger – or perhaps more tenacious. No matter what pain she seemed to inflict, he refused to le
t go, his hands were clamped on her wrist like a steel vice.

  Alice kicked for the groin, hard as only a bicyclist could really kick. He didn't even flinch as he kept dragging her uphill, closer and closer to the door of his house.

  She knew, deep down, that she must not allow herself to be dragged into the house, nor let that door to slam behind her. She screamed herself hoarse as the tall man paced towards his house. She raked her nails across his face. His expression didn't even flinch as he yanked hard on her wrist.

  Now her arm was in a painful lock behind her back as he pushed her in front of him. The only way to lessen the pain was to pace in the direction he wanted to – towards the house. The open door was now close – but now Alice could reach her rape whistle.

  There was a high, shrill, penetrating sound that Alice knew had to carry for a long distance – but, to her horror, the man merely chuckled as he shoved her into his hallway, slamming the door shut behind him.

  For a second, she was free.

  In the split second, she managed to wonder at how strange the house was. The entrance was a narrow hallway only two yards long, ending in a second – door. A pair of strange holes had been made at both sides, only a few inches wide and a foot tall, opening into the house itself. And the radio was on, full-blast.

  Behind her, the lock snapped shut – and seconds later, his hands were grabbing her again. She kicked ferociously, fighting for every inch as he dragged her towards the second door, insulting and threatening him.

  “You can't do this you sick fuck! My father is a judge! You can't just grab me like this!”

  For a second, she managed to push against the sides of the hallway with her legs and shoulders, getting literally stuck – and then he yanked hard, again. There was pain as her side slammed into something extremely hard, and then they were inside the house.

  Alice saw Edward Griffith's hand in front of her face, and bit down on it, hard.

  “You stupid ingrate fucking bitch!” – Griffith bellowed, his implacable mask suddenly gone – “I'm saving your fucking life here, you-” – he ran out of breath. – “You...”

  “You're saving my life?” – Alice had to struggle not to break out in hysterical laughter – “What kind of sick joke is this now?”

  “Listen! Listen, you...”

  On the radio, a familiar voice was speaking. It took Alice a few seconds to put the meaning of the words together – and far longer to grasp at what was actually taking place.

  “This is an emergency broadcast. Repeat, this is an emergency broadcast. As of thirty minutes ago, several hundred ballistic missiles have been launched from Russia towards the United States. As of this moment, we are at war. All citizens are recommended to get into cover, such as a basement or a dedicate bomb shelter. Failing that, get under the nearest desk and cover your head. Impact is imminent within 15 minutes. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill.”

  “See?” – Griffith said, nursing his injured hang as blood dripped from it onto the floor. – “I heard it when it was announced. When I saw you, I realized you can't possibly reach your parents' house from here before they hit. I had to bring you in.”

  Alice stared like a deer caught in the headlights, trying to decide if this was true or some perverse trick – but the radio continued. “The following is a recorded message from the President of the United States.”

  And indeed, the voice was that of the President. “My fellow Americans. As of this moment, our nation is under attack by the worst sort of weapons of mass destruction. The horror of thermonuclear war, which generations have struggled to avoid, is now upon us. Within the next few minutes, at least several big cities will be struck by enemy nuclear weapons. There is little I, or anyone else, can do about that fact. However...”

  She blanked out. Oh my God. This is actually true. Oh my God. Oh my God. Jesus Christ what is happening?!

  Alice felt her legs give out under her. This was far too much.

  And then she felt Griffith pick her up and lift her from the floor.

  “We need to get underground.”

  Chapter 2

  Griffith carried Alice in his arms, pacing carefully down the stairs and into the basement of the house. He left her there – and then came back upwards. There were the sounds of a door locking upstairs – How many doors does this guy have? – and then Griffith came back. He slammed the basement door shut. It was heavy, reminding Alice of a bank vault.

  The basement was extremely strange. On one end, there was an obviously new wall, equipped with another door – a threatening steel door almost as heavy as the one she came in from. On the other, a desk with a computer, and multiple overflowing shelves with books. There were various large steel cupboards on the sides of the basement, and a gigantic bed stood against one of the walls. Alice shuddered – the suspicion that he intended to do something terrible to her had not fully disappeared from her mind.

  Yet the radio was still talking. On the computer screen, some form of emergency broadcast was being streamed. Yes, she realized, it was all real.

  Alice crumpled down on the floor as it began to dawn on her what was actually happening. She was hiding with some strange creep in a fallout shelter, listening to the world die.

  *

  It was not quite clear what had happened. Perhaps a communication system in Moscow had gone wrong, creating false alarms over Russia's early-warning system. Perhaps Russia's central command lost contact with its missile bases, activating the 'Perimeter' dead man's switches. Maybe someone else started it. It was not possible to know.

  All across the world, weapons systems that were never truly expected to be used were, in fact, being used. The predictions of strategic analysts, military planners, and generals were being tested. It was too bad most of them wouldn't ever lead to hear the debriefings.

  Over the North sea, Tu-95 strategic bombers approached their firing positions. The bellies of the massive, prop-driven beasts opened up, and let forth their payload – Kh-55 cruise missiles, aimed at military bases on both sides of the channel.

  In Kaliningrad, Iskander tactical missiles were rising from their launch rails, streaking towards missile defense bases in Eastern Europe. Near Yoshkar-Ola, the steel hatches of missile silos slid open, and terrible blasts were heard as gunpowder boosters lifted the Yars missiles into the air. Then, the engines lit, hefting the rockets up, towards surprised Europe.

  On American bases in Poland, soldiers and airmen rushed frantically to their positions – but it was no use. Even had they not been hit by Iskanders, even if every missile found its mark, the defense system was not capable of taking down every Russian missile in a single salvo. But things were far worse. Russian electronic warfare systems, while not as good as advertised, were still good enough to interfere with their enemy's aim – and so, in the end, no more than two or three of the rockets were intercepted. Not nearly enough to matter.

  By the time the next wave of attack rolled in, there would not be anybody left on guard to try and stop it.

  Kiel burned. Molesworth burned. Ramstein burned. Spangdahlelm burned. The Frankfurt airport ceased operation forever. Southern Frankfurt was a roaring lake of fire, as the city got caught in the thermal blast radius of one of the missiles, aimed at a nearby US base.

  And now, a second flight of bombers had come into range, firing their own payload of Kh-55 missiles – now, at the cities of Europe. Berlin. London. Paris. Madrid. Rome. Brussels. There was no good way to defend the cities – only to retaliate.

  *

  “All men to battle stations! All men to battle stations!”

  Captain David Beresford-Collingfirth could not believe his eyes. He trained for this. He prepared for this. But somewhere deep in his soul, he rejected the very possibility of this actually happening. He always thought men would have to be insane to willingly destroy the world – and yet here they were, doing precisely that.

  The reports in front of him were confirmed. There was no doubt. This was not a drill. Even as he stood here, thermonuclear missiles were on their way to England, to the United States, to Germany. It had happened.