Georgetown, Washington, DC
Simon Hunter gazed out of the window of his rented Georgetown townhouse as his neighbour walked his poodle in one direction and a fat man in a tracksuit wobbled in another. He sighed. Nothing had seemingly changed in this sleepy, salubrious part of the capital city since the EMP attack, but he had. He’d lost a woman he had loved, a woman it turned out he didn’t know at all.
Debriefed and then signed off to recover, Hunter mentally and Tate physically were both recuperating. Tate had recovered quicker than expected from his surgery, but unexpectedly he’d chosen to spend the rest of his downtime with Hunter. Hunter didn’t know how to thank him.
Hunter sipped his milky tea and couldn’t help a sudden smile from forming on his face. He moved to the settee and sat. His stomach rumbled as the greasy, delicious waft of a full English breakfast drifted in from the kitchen. He picked up the TV remote for his new set. It was the same brand as his old one that had been rendered useless by the EMP, but a different model. He fumbled with the unfamiliar buttons and managed to find BBC World. Milky tea and the BBC, it was like being back in Camden as a kid, but not quite.
It was a quarter after the hour on a Friday morning. On screen a journalist reported on the continuing efforts of the international community to aid the rebuilding and re-plugging of the US after the “EMP terrorist attack of August”. The banner under the reporter’s name gave his location as Arlington Assembly, Arlington, Texas. It was where the US car giant GM manufactured, amongst other vehicles, the Tahoe.
‘Of course, Martin,’ the BBC correspondent replied to the studio anchor, ‘the true cost to the US economy can only at this point in time be estimated. But undaunted, the president as we know has promised to rebuild it stronger and greater than ever before.’
The studio cut away to the well-used footage from several weeks before, which showed the President of the United States and the Prime Minister of Canada at a joint press conference. They smiled broadly and shook hands and posed for photographs all the while standing in front of a huge banner which read, “Making North America Great Again”.
‘MNAGA,’ Hunter said, and took another sip of tea.
‘Here.’ Tate appeared from the kitchen. He was holding two large plates.
‘Thanks.’ Hunter took one and placed it down on the coffee table in front of him. His brother sat at his side and did the same. Hunter studied his breakfast: eggs, bacon, sausages, baked beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, fried bread, and black pudding. Gourmet.
The brothers ate in silence, listening yet not listening, as the news report continued. An info graphic showed the number of new businesses that had been set up, with federal government grants, to handle the huge demand for the replacement and fitting of wiring looms to salvageable vehicles. It then displayed the import volume of vehicles from manufacturing plants in Canada and Mexico. A new table depicted, with mini-flags, the percentage by country of electronic components shipped to the US. Percentage wise, the biggest winners were the Germans, the Japanese, the Koreans and the Taiwanese.
‘The Chinese too, have played their part,’ the correspondent stated. ‘However, with the unusual omission of one of China’s largest and most respected electronics manufactures, CY Holdings, from the US tender process, speculation has increased regarding the disappearance, of its multi-billionaire owner, Chen Yan. The Electronic Princess, as she has been dubbed by the international business press, has not been seen since late August. And now the business world is asking why.’
‘What a pity,’ Tate said.
‘She needs to be found,’ Hunter replied.
The visual feed returned to the correspondent in Arlington. ‘Of course, it will continue to be the United States armed forces which will have the most spent on it. All branches have suffered huge technological losses, with everything from field radios to cruise missiles inoperable and aircraft carriers reduced to floating barges. But NATO and her allies have rallied round, adopting a status of high alert whilst the US remains vulnerable.’
‘What’s the latest from Moscow?’ the studio anchor asked, as though the question had not been rehearsed.
The feed switched to footage, taken in September, of the President of Russia returning tanned, fit and fresh from his summer holiday at his dacha in Siberia.
‘Well, Martin,’ the correspondent continued, ‘the Russian president has issued an official statement that Russia is a true friend of the West and will do all it can to help its great strategic ally rebuild.’
‘On condition that we hugely relax sanctions against them,’ Hunter scoffed, through a mouthful of egg.
‘I grew out of politics,’ Tate said, as he bit into a piece of toast.
‘I know you haven’t grown out of this.’ Hunter changed the channel and the familiar logo of the WWE filled the screen.
‘Ooh yeah!’ Tate said, with an exaggerated drawl.
‘Wooooo!’ Hunter replied.
*
After losing themselves in the world of sports entertainment for the best part of an hour, Tate sat in the passenger seat of Hunter’s rewired Land Rover Defender as they weaved their way out of the city. It wouldn’t have been Tate’s choice of vehicle, but his brother always had had odd tastes.
Their destination was the Appalachian Trail in Virginia. As they moved farther and farther away from the city, the Friday morning traffic began to ease. In the three months since the EMP attack only a small percentage of the population had managed to regain their independent mobility. Ironically these tended to be those at the bottom of society, with older vehicles not affected by the EMP, and those at the very top who had instantly ordered new, replacement cars. This was the new normal, for a while at least.
They passed a roadside billboard with the slogan “Make driving great again, buy your rewired, cherished car today!”
‘MDGA,’ Tate said.
‘Sorry,’ Hunter said, with a shake of the head, ‘I was miles away.’
‘Just keep your eyes on the sat nav.’
The brothers remained silent for the majority of the trip. The drive from Washington into Virginia to reach this part of the Appalachian Trail took just over an hour before they pulled into an empty car park at the bottom of the trail.
The pair climbed out, zipped up their coats, shouldered their day sacks and set off. The trail meandered and sloped upwards, at first an easy hike but becoming increasingly difficult and Tate, used to leading from the front, pulled away.
‘Jack, slow down!’
‘Come on!’ Tate called back to his brother.
‘Look, I can’t keep up – you may well be bloody superhuman but I’m not!’
‘I thought you were a runner?’
‘I am, but not uphill!’
Tate stopped and looked back down the blustery mountain trail. It was part of the same range he had flown over three months earlier in the commandeered Gulfstream jet. He wondered where the wreckage had landed, and he hoped it hadn’t injured any civilians. His leg still ached from the gunshot wound inflicted on that very same day, but it was bearable – it had to be if he was going to regain and even surpass his previous fitness levels.
Hunter caught up, panting. ‘A normal person would now be recuperating on a desert island with a vodka martini.’
‘You want to look like a normal person, act like a normal person.’
Hunter rolled his eyes. ‘Jack, stop it with the clever quotes.’
‘Ah, you don’t know who said that, do you?’ Tate tutted. ‘I’ll give you two guesses.’
‘OK,’ Hunter said, still battling to regain his breath, ‘it was either Gandhi or the Dalai Lama.’
Tate shook his head with exaggerated slowness. ‘Mike Tyson.’
The brothers started to laugh. Tate retrieved his water bottle, had a swig and passed it to Hunter. Hunter took a mouthful and then pulled a face. ‘This is water.’
‘What did you expect?’
Hunter frowned. ‘Something medicinal perhaps? We’re in the mountains so I’d have chosen bourbon; that’s what “Mountain Men” drink, isn’t it?’
‘We’re here to get healthy, not hammered.’
Tate put away his water bottle and looked wistfully north: the entire Appalachian Trail was over two thousand miles long and if they trekked the entire length, they’d end up in Maine. Perhaps he’d revisit Camden one day.
‘What are you thinking, Jack?’
Tate lied. He didn’t want to mention the EMP. ‘I’m just taking in the scenery. Look around, this place hasn’t changed in millennia.’
‘True.’
The brothers stood in the stillness as the November winds rolled around them and threatened to bring the first snows of the year.
‘I miss her, Jack.’
Tate nodded, but remained silent, not wanting to stop his brother from opening up but also not wanting to say the wrong thing.
‘I loved her. I really loved her.’
Hunter’s eyes became moist. Tate hoped it was the increasing wind but knew it was not. He wasn’t good with emotions, well apart from anger. He said all he could think of saying: ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Jack, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about. Oleniuk killed her, murdered her like he murdered our parents … If I had just … if I could have …’
Tate drew his big brother close and embraced him. ‘You’ll never lose me, Simon. Not again.’
‘Thanks, brother.’
Jack Tate felt his own eyes water, and this time he knew it wasn’t the wind. Regardless of who their parents had been, Jack Tate and Simon Hunter always were and always would be brothers. ‘Sod it. That’s enough for today – let’s go back down, find a bar and drink some bourbon!’
***