Fragments From A Dead Earth

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Fragments From A Dead Earth
A Timeline in Vignettes
By Emperor Norton I

Another 1964

The wail of raid sirens cut through the city, disrupting an otherwise pleasant afternoon in June. A stillness hung in the air. The city was abandoned now. Most had fled to the access tunnels in the 15 minutes since the sirens began. John and Mary were not so lucky. The couple raced down the street, past abandoned cars and the scattered remains of the day. Buildings were empty. Through a window, John could see the world just 16 minutes ago; meals left half eaten with cigarettes half smoked; paperwork neatly filed with no one to care for them, and no longer with a purpose. It was a world abandoned, which would soon be gone as if it never existed.

A man of 35, John was still in good shape. He had grown up quick on the streets back east. He was a quarterback in high school, and was drafted to fight in Korea after graduation. He knew first hand what atomic weapons could do. However, he could only run as fast as his wife. Mary had been at home when the warnings began. John had taken the car into San Diego, to make an early start on the Coca-Cola account. When the news of the attacks on Berlin came over the radio, he had raced back home. He made a twenty minute drive in just five. The sirens finally went off on their way to the city. Congestion forced them to abandon the car. They had run five blocks on foot and still had distance to go.

Within 10 minutes, John and Mary had made it to the entrance to the suburb. It was an unassuming structure, similar to a subway entrance with a reinforced concrete and lead awning. It was not enough to defend against an atomic bomb, but it offered some mental comfort. Proper shielding was further underground. A group of soldiers stood guard at the entrance, hurrying the crowd of stragglers along amidst chaos and panic. They were more boys than men, John thought; not one of them older than 21. And probably just as scared as everyone else.

"Name!?" one of the soldiers asked, quick and sharp.

"John DeSilva. And this is my wife, Mary."

The soldier muttered to himself as his eyes glanced down the registry. "Yeah, yer here. Hurry up!"

John and Mary pressed through the lead doors down a flight of dimly lit steps. They followed the crowd of other late arrivals. Streaks of daylight disappeared as the soldiers closed the door behind them. John and Mary paused for a moment, as they heard screams off in the distance, pleading to be let in. John knew they would not be. There was nothing they could do except keep going. Down further, where the steps ended, the couple passed through an even thicker reinforced door. They entered a waiting area with a hundred others that were being hurried in. The door shut behind them as the guards followed. The room was cold steel and concrete, and lit by rows of artificial light. The room was awash with a loud and indistinct mutter of conversation and tense emotion.

A sudden sound of thunder reverberated the room, and everyone went quiet. Horror erupted as another and another rocked the crowd, booming into their chests. It was as if the earth were falling apart, one after another, until the room went dark. In moments, the lights turned back on amid the hums of generators. Everyone knew.

Along the sides of the crowd, soldiers pressed the mass of people down the long hallway leading to the suburb. Mary put her head on John's shoulder, as the couple held each other in silence. She was six months pregnant, and the couple knew this was not the world they had wanted to raise their child in. They were the lucky few who would survive, but the future was uncertain.
 
A man of 35, John was still in good shape. He had grown up quick on the streets back east. He was a quarterback in high school, and was drafted to fight in Korea after graduation. He knew first hand what atomic weapons could do.​
Sounds like Korea went nuclear, and that is the POD. Nice image in the OP, by the way.​
 
You have my attention!

*Sips racist Southron drink*

So, a Cuban Missile Crisis scenario, or what?

No, because of the below.

Sounds like Korea went nuclear, and that is the POD. Nice image in the OP, by the way.​

Thank you.

Korea did indeed involve unpleasantries. However, the POD is older than that and will be the topic of either the next post or the post after. And said vignette will involve the fictional Mr. DeSilva.

I do intend not to apathetically abandon this if I can help it. I have the habit of doing so. The content I have so far is what I worked on during the forum down time. Something critical is the 'suburbs', which are not what you think of them as and everything the name indicates they could be. And that will also be covered in time. And I will not comment on them beyond that and what you get hints at.
 
Something critical is the 'suburbs', which are not what you think of them as and everything the name indicates they could be. And that will also be covered in time. And I will not comment on them beyond that and what you get hints at.

On reflection, that mention of "suburbs" is rather strange. I can't imagine what drove urban development to create what you are hinting at, so this story has become rather entertainingly bizarre. I'll keep an eye on it.
 
Oh, that would be the case. Well, I'll certainly be keeping tabs on this, Norton. How fitting for the new board - new life - to start with atomic war and total death.
 
Not to stroke my own ego, but damn I'm good at writing.

Oh, that would be the case. Well, I'll certainly be keeping tabs on this, Norton. How fitting for the new board - new life - to start with atomic war and total death.

Thank you. I enjoy misery. It's like a warm, fuzzy hug. And you are my company.

So the concept is like Metro 2033 only in the US instead of Moscow. Will we see mutants? :eek:

It will not be so off beat, although I'll be having fun, if that makes any sense. We'll be exploring the tone together as this thing gets written. However, no mutants outside of potential birth defects.
 
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Awesome! One thing: on the new board, how does one do a signature (like yours) in which your TLs are shown and linked to? I can't figure it out.
 
I like this.

So the POD was MacArthur got his way and use A-bombs in Korea and China, leading to a much more tense Cold War, with WW3 breaking out in 64.

Right?
 
I like this.

So the POD was MacArthur got his way and use A-bombs in Korea and China, leading to a much more tense Cold War, with WW3 breaking out in 64.

Right?

It's older, which is the portion I'm working on at the moment.

No, no, I get that. How do you enclose links to your TLs, like you have there?

There's a link icon in the signature field. Just type out the title, highlight it, and then click the icon and paste the link in the field that pops up.
 
Chapter I

Another 1944

Klaus lit his cigarette. It was early morning and the sun was not yet over the horizon. The orange glimmer of tobacco was the only light around, and Klaus could not make out his watch. He would guess it was 5 o'clock. The late Spring air was still cool, and the smoke tingled his lungs with welcome comfort. He enjoyed these brief moments alone with his thoughts.

Klaus had been a captain in the Luftwaffe for two years. However, he had never been to country such as this. The Azores had a charming, rustic beauty, tucked away from the world and the war. Like his morning cigarette, it let Klaus escape the world for a short while, lost in himself and free from worry.

He took long drags, savoring his time as a purple sky melted into red and orange. In a short while, he would lead his men on a mission for the fuhrer. A mission of "great honor for the fatherland", and all the other platitudes he had grown accustomed to. But for now he was by himself, alone with the company of a cigarette and the rising sun.


Another Place in Another 1944

Michael DeSilva stood at the deli counter, hurriedly writing out a delivery list for one of his older customers. He peered through a rough pair of bifocals. They were worn and the prescription was out of date, but he could not afford a new pair. "Maybe if this is a good month...", he thought. He was kept company by a baseball game on the radio. It was the Yankees against the Philadelphia Phillies. Michael welcomed this first game of the season. Baseball was American, and it was a happy distraction in these hard years.

Johnny DeSilva came running downstairs. It was already early afternoon, and Johnny had slept in for most of it. His father did not usually let his son sleep in so long. Michael had come to the country at 13 years old thirty years ago. At Johnny's age, he left Italy with no money and no education. He worked his way through sweat shops for a dime a day, twelve hours a day, with a regular beating, and five hours of sleep a night at an overcrowded boarding house. And he reminded Johnny of those facts every chance he got. But it was opening day, and he was feeling generous.

"Hey, Pop!" Johnny said with an unusually refreshed tone. "No work for me today?"

"No, no, no," Michael said with a thick accent, walking over a bag of assembled groceries. "You geta sleep in, you gotta work. Take dese to Miss Baker." With his thick, graying mustache, old world accent and worn bifocals, Pop was starting to remind him of Geppetto. However, Pop did not always enjoy Johnny's American humor and making the comment might get a belt.

"But I was gonna play ball with the guys today," Johnny said, despondent. In old neighborhoods, there were always kids to play with. If you were lucky, your family owned a radio. For most families on the block, the apartments were underfurnished, underdecorated, overpacked and too cramped. There was not much else to do, so it was easy to get a team together.

"You no play, yet. You visit you uncle Upstate, you play all you want. For now, you deliver groceries....then, you play with you friends."

"Alright, Pop," Johnny said, dropping his glove and ball and taking the groceries from his father, "I'll drop off the groceries."

"Dats a good boy," Michael said with a warm smile.

"Love you too, Pop."

Johnny stepped out onto the street. The breeze blew specks of rain against his face. With a free hand, he jostled up the flaps of his jacket, and started walking. It was a cool spring day in Brooklyn. With the wind, it may have only been 40° out, and the clouds were letting down a steady drizzle. Still, it was Saturday, and the neighborhood was busy as usual. As he passed people on the sidewalk, Johnny noticed they were dressed light for the weather. Winter was gone, and people dressed for the weather they wanted, not the one they had. Passing the shops along the sidewalk, Johnny could make out the smells of the neighborhood. The breeze swept around the scent of fresh ground coffee, meals cooking in the diners, wisps of tobacco smoke, baking bread, and the spices from Pop's deli a little ways behind him. In the street, he noticed his pals playing stickball while dodging the occasional car.

"Hey, Johnny!" Bobby shouted, standing on a manhole cover they were using for short stop. "Whatta you doin' workin' today?" Bobby Ribaudo was one of Johnny's best friends. He was a kid about Johnny's age, but a little shorter. His leather coat hid a white shirt, and was zipped down despite the weather. Though only 15, he fancied himself a man since he hit puberty. None of the girls knew he existed, but he acted like he ran the neighborhood. Bobby carried himself with a swagger he picked up from Frank Sinatra and Jimmy Cagney movies. As always, he had his hair slicked back with pomade stolen from his father's medicine cabinet.

"I gotta make a delivery to one of the old maids for my Pop. Gimme half an hour."

"Alright. Well hurry yer ass up, will ya!" Bobby said, before pitching the ball to his other friend Frankie.

Out of the nearby apartments, their mothers yelled for them to put on heavier coats. Bobby's mother screamed for him to watch his language or she would "beat his ass with a frying pan". She made the sign of the cross, cigarette in hand. His fun would have to wait till after the delivery.

Norma Baker lived a block over. She was a frail old woman who lived on her late husband's pension. It was a nest egg that was never enough but never ran out. Johnny did not know how she afforded her groceries every week. But she always seemed to pay on time. Johnny suspected his father took pity on her, which is why his son was making a personal delivery on a Saturday.

After walking for 10 minutes, Johnny had made it to her building. Opening door, he was knocked down by the stench wafting inside. Old tenements like this had an odor of waste and neglect. Boiled cabbage, sweat and mold came together into an indistinguishable putridness. It got thicker as Johnny climbed up the stairs, and he took shallow breathes as best he could. The steps buckled and creaked, and he made careful movements as to not fall in. The yellowed wallpaper was peeling off the walls. It was a faded floral design, as best he could tell in the light, occasionally broken up by a cockroach. "A hell of a Saturday," Johnny muttered to himself.

At the top of the stairs, Johnny jostled the bag against one shoulder. He knocked with his free hand, careful on the aged wood. No reply. He knocked again, three taps. No reply. He knocked again, three taps, much harder. No reply. By the fourth attempt, he banged on the door until he heard a frail voice inside. "Coming," it said, in nearly a whisper. Johnny heard the clicks of latches being undone along the frame, as the door finally creaked open. A frail old woman appeared. Mrs. Baker stood dressed in a blue outfit about fifteen years out of date, but well kept and freshly cleaned.

"Hello, Miss Baker. I'm Johnny; Michael DeSilva's son," Johnny said, peering behind the bag, "I got the delivery for you."

"Oh! Oh, yes! Do come in, do come in. Sit down," Mrs. Baker said, leading Johnny into the apartment.

"That's alright, ma'am," Johnny said. The apartment was in the same state as the rest of the building. The walls were tinged with mildew and cobwebs, and yellowed from the late Mr. Baker's cigars. Tchotchkes lined the room, along with some potted plants and a few photos and paintings. Johnny could not tell if Mrs. Baker was trying to cover the mess, or if she had grown so used to it she could no longer tell. He would rather stay standing. "I really do have to get going."

"Alright, alright. Let me get my pocket book."

Mrs. Baker disappeared into another room for a few minutes, before returning with a small leather purse. "Here we are," she said, feeling the contents with her fingers, "Two dollars and fifty cents." She deposited the quarters into Johnny's hand. "And here's a nice dime for you, young man," she said. Her smile cracked her red lipstick.

Johnny returned a smile, pocketed the change, and made his way to the door. "Have a good day, ma'am," he said, closing the door behind him. He briskly made his way down the stairs, and stepped out onto the street.

Johnny started walking home, tumbling the change in his pocket, careful not to let it fall out on the street. He checked his watch. It was a quarter to 2 o'clock. There was still plenty of time to get back home to Pop and meet up with the guys. It was getting colder now, and Johnny buttoned the flaps of his lapel close to his face. He walked against the wind. A little further down the street, Johnny stopped into a newsstand and bought himself a Coke. It would be a 15 minute walk back, and he was in no rush.

A wail screamed through the city, disrupting a rainy afternoon in April 1944.

"What the hell is that!?" Johnny screamed, barely able to hear himself.

"...Jesus Christ!" the vendor screamed, "Get inside, kid!"

"What!?," Johnny asked, unable to catch his thoughts.

"Get inside!!!," the news vendor screamed in panic, leaping out of his stand and grabbing Johnny's arm. The change spilled onto the street.

"Oh, no!" Johnny knew. "No, no, no! Pop!," Johnny struggled to break free of the vendor's grip, "I gotta get home to Pop. God dammit, let me go! I gotta get home to Pop!"

With a snap of his arm, Johnny broke free and ran. Against the wind and the rain, against the crowds searching in panic for shelter, against abandoned cars and wailing sirens, he ran back home. It was still 15 minutes away.

Off in the distance, he could hear explosions coming from the river. The wind carried a smell of burning sulfur. It mixed with his sweat, and stung his eyes as he ran. He was just 7 minutes away now. The sirens gave way to a chorus of droning engines. They grew louder as they echoed through empty streets. He had never heard it before. Against the rain, Johnny could see seven planes in the sky. And then seven more. And seven more. A black rain poured down. A burning white flash blinded him as he was thrown across the street. He fell into darkness.

John awoke in a daze. His body throbbed with pain, and he struggled to pick himself off the ground. The air was choked with a clinging grey mist, hanging with silence and stillness. He struggled to breath, and his eyes burned. He checked his head. Drops of blood rolled off his fingers. In the distance, he could make out the sound of emergency sirens. The raid sirens were gone, or at least he could not hear them. Johnny checked his watch, but the face was broken. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious.

Through the fog, John felt his way over heaps of rubble and debris. He could see a short distance ahead, and was careful not to hurt himself. He did not know how long he was out, but home was still 5 minutes away. In the haze, he could make out other figures wandering the streets. He could not see more than vague shadows, and wondered if they were people he knew. He kept going, trying to make out a path in the landscape.

John could not tell how long it had taken, but he made his way home. As he walked closer, the fog cleared ahead of him. He ran through the door, and was met with a smell of burning. On the floor were a singed baseball and a pitcher's mitt, next to the heap of a man. His home was gone. What was left was ashes. Nothing but ashes.
 
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Hmmm. Looks like Nazis with nukes nix New York. John's POV doesn't seem to mention the war at all, and seems to give the feeling that the Depression never really ended, so perhaps we have an America-stays-out POD with Germany launching an atomic Pearl Harbor-style first strike. That might require FDR to never be elected President, but I'm admittedly not going on much at this point.

Still, great work so far, OP!
 
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