Our next issue, "Safer Where You Are" is going to be released on march 12th, and I though I was time to give you a little taste of what's going to be in it. So here it is, a preview of the story I wrote for the next issue. You can read the rest in Safer Where You Are, out march 12th.
Alistair's Armageddon.
Alistair was at the country club when the world ended. Had he known it was coming, he’d have ordered better wine, but as is the way of such things, he had been thinking of habit rather than pleasure when the jacket-clad waiter had switched on his note pad. He’d asked for the usual house Zinfandel which, though adequate, hardly suited the grandeur of the moment. Alistair snorted. How annoyingly predictable of him.
Of course, he supposed he could have foreseen the event, what with all the agitation back in the city. The commoners running around with suitcases packed to bursting, soldiers in green fatigues setting up barricades and going on and on about curfews and rations, blocking the path of Alistair’s Rolls with their tanks and barbed wire. Yes, things had certainly been more afoot than usual; although, since the monstrosities had come out of the sewers sixteen years ago, it was hard to distinguish normal trigger-happiness from all-out war. Oh well. Maybe Alistair should be grateful he had been spared the humiliation of being recruited into the awfully-dressed and ill-fated militia that the President had said would save them.
As for now, the blast illuminated the horizon behind the mountains in a yellowish glow that reminded Alistair of hollandaise sauce and made him hungry. He wondered if he would have time for some eggs Benedict before he got obliterated. Probably not, but he signaled the waiter nonetheless. One should never be overly pessimistic: it was neither healthy nor becoming.
The waiter walked up to his table and bowed. “Yes, sir?”
“Do you suppose it is too late for eggs Benedict, James?” Alistair asked.
The waiter looked briefly at the mountains, over which a massive column of black smoke was now rising.
“We can certainly try, sir. The Silver Mountain Club always does its best.”
“I know that, James, but you will agree with me this thermonuclear explosion over there in OldCity lowers our prospects of survival considerably.”
“Absolutely, sir, although you will be happy to know that the Silver Mountain Club, in an always ongoing effort to anticipate the needs of its members, has recently acquired the latest in Xuvar Shielding technology, through the generosity of Mr. Xuvar himself.”
“Laszlo Xuvar? I know him. Splendid chap, if most underdressed. Must be that unwieldy Hungarian culture of his. Or is it Bulgarian? Is he here? Would love to spend my last moments with someone of equal social rank - no offense, James.”
The waiter smiled apologetically which, in the orange apocalyptic glow, gave him a creepy look that did not belong on an employee of the Silver Mountain Club, but Alistair supposed you had to make allowances.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the waiter said, “Mr. Xuvar is down at the pool house, where he set up what he calls his main generator and I believe he’s rather busy.”
“Pity.” Said Alistair. “How about those eggs Benedict, then? I shall spend my last moments with them instead.”
“Very well sir. Would you prefer forêt noire ham or pancetta with that?”
“Pancetta, of course, James. Always Pancetta, even in the face of annihilation.”
“Coming up, sir”, James said, and turned smoothly on his heels towards the kitchen.
“Say, James?” Alistair called as the waiter was leaving.
“Yes, sir?”
“Do you think good old Xuvar’s shielding will really protect us from the radiation?”
“Mr. Xuvar seems to think so, sir.”
“Jolly good. I think I’ll have another glass of Zinfandel, then.”
Vincent Mackay
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