My Only Sunshine

            The sky went black at 3:07 Eastern Standard Time on Friday, December 12^th.  I just happened to be looking at the clock in my car, right before my car was flipped off the highway by the shockwaves of the blast.  When I regained consciousness, the clock was no longer working.  Neither was the car.  Neither was my left eye.

            Roughly 25 more miles stood between me and D.C., and every inch of it was wreckage.  Flattened trees, burning cars, huge pieces of concrete – my path was difficult to say the least, and much less negotiable in a full radiation suit.  I stopped counting the bodies after two dozen; I’d been walking for fifteen minutes.  My injuries were substantial – I think my arm was broken, my vision was severely impaired on the left, and I must have suffered a concussion – and I was actually prepared.  Death came swiftly for the ignorant.  The highway was a miniature mountain range of mangled commuters, asphalt, and automobiles; I walked through the piles of former trees to the west, close enough to still follow the path of the road, but far enough to not draw attention to myself.  Even uprooted and mostly destroyed, the trees provided more cover than the road.

            As I crossed over the city limits, I still had yet to see another living person.  To say the city was destroyed would be an understatement; it looked more like someone had taken a thirty million gallon trash bag full of discarded city parts and dumped it on this spot.  I fairly waded through debris on my way to the Capitol.

            The passage to the labyrinthine complex seven stories below the Capitol building is not easy to find on a normal day; in the wake of an attack of this magnitude, it was near impossible.  After what I assumed was at least an hour of searching, I found the loose concrete block that revealed the titanium-shielded keypad that opened the retinal scanning device that allowed me access to the three-foot by three-foot access hatch so I could climb down three stories to a secure room in which my radiation gear was destroyed and I was cleaned.  Four more stories down and I was in a network of tunnels, hallways, hatches, ladders, and poorly illuminated conference rooms.  Fresh air was being pumped in from a station 45 miles out to sea.  Through this tunnel system, I could reach Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, Atlanta, and Boston without ever seeing the surface.  Even in the midst of this tragedy, I couldn’t help but be amazed by my team’s engineering accomplishments; I just never dreamed they’d actually be needed.

            Another 3 mile walk finally brought me to my destination.  I took a seat in the back of the 300 person lecture hall that was barely half-filled. 

            “At this point, we’re showing at least seventeen separate strikes.  Our missile defense network completely failed, and early analysis is pointing to sabotage.  We can’t even begin to calculate casualties, but plans for retaliation are underway.  Dr. Auden,” the general said, motioning to me, “we’re glad you could join us.”

            “My apologies,” I said, walking towards the floor.  “I was delayed outside of the city.”  From quick glances around the room, I recognized about a third of the people in attendance, but they all knew who I was.  The weight of their eyes bred more claustrophobia in my chest than the tunnels ever could.

            “Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the general, “please welcome Dr. Philip Auden, special consultant to the president.  Dr., the floor is yours.”

            “Thank you, general.”  I focused my gaze on an empty seat in the third row and concentrated on keeping my voice level.  “Ladies and gentlemen, we hoped this day would never come.  We hoped these rooms and tunnels would never be needed.  We hoped this group of individuals would never need to be gathered.”  I extracted a tissue from my pocket and blew my nose.  “We hoped in vain.

            “This underground complex was built to sustain twenty-five thousand people for up to eighteen months.  Our goal is to be above ground within six.  Even as we speak, automated systems are working to contain radiation and cleanse the air above us.”  A screen lowered behind me, showing a satellite/radar hybrid map of the East coast.  “As you can see, the attack was far beyond the magnitude any of us expected.  However, it was not beyond what we planned for.  This,” I gestured to the map, “is now showing us a time-lapse projection of atmospheric conditions over the next month.  Within four days, the entirety of North America will be under this cloud.  Within six days, the Northern hemisphere will be without sunlight.  Within eight days, sunlight will not hit our planet’s surface anywhere.

            “Some of you are aware of project DST; for others, this may be new.  As I mentioned before, we intend to be living on the surface of the Earth again within six months, but we will not live in darkness.  Since the institution of Daylight Saving Time in 1967, the United States has collected, or “saved,” over six thousand, five hundred hours of daylight.  That daylight is stored in specialized containers within this complex; once the immediate atmosphere is cleared for human habitation again, daylight distribution devices, or triple-d’s, will be deployed at strategic points throughout the country.  Our plan is to provide 8 hours of sunlight per day for the following two and a half years, at which point we hope to have the upper atmosphere cleansed to the point where natural sunlight can once again reach us.  Now, those strategic points were chosen based on a number of criteria, as you can see here-”

            The sound of the alarms was deafening and threw even my staid audience into panic. 

            “Through the exit on the left,” the general roared, physically guiding people in that direction.

            I grabbed his arm as he passed and at the top of my lungs asked, “What is it?”

            “The daylight tanks,” he screamed back.  “Someone’s trying to steal them!”