Chapter Two.

Ottawa, Ontario. Intersection of Hunt Club Rd and Riverside Dr.

0845 hrs, 15 April 2009.

Day Zero.

Vladimir Krylov stood motionless beside his stalled Maybach 62S. Moments before, a blinding flash of light had seared through his brain and now he found himself in a world both familiar and yet strangely different. The day seemed the same as it had only minutes before, but now an unearthly quiet hung in the air, which covered the land like a burial shroud. As far as he could see, in every direction, every vehicle was now stopped, motionless and quiet. Even the traffic lights in the intersection had stopped working, and were dark. The drivers who had been stopped at the red light were now stepping out of their cars and looking around with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright fear. Those cars that had been in motion, had continued to move even as their engines had quit. The failure of brakes and power steering led to numerous collisions, some serious, most not.

Ivan and Victor, his bodyguards, were also standing next to the car, their hands resting lightly inside their jackets, fingers on their guns. At first they had responded as if there was some threat to their charge, but now weren’t sure what they should be doing. The car’s driver, Piotr, sat inside the car, unsuccessfully trying to get it to start, apparently unaware that the problem was more widespread than just this one, very expensive and now useless automobile. Vladimir knew, without really knowing how, that the world as he had known it had just been irrevocably changed.

Almost as if to punctuate that thought, Vladimir felt a shadow passing overhead, causing him to look up, his eyes widening. An Air Canada passenger jet, one he recognized as a B737, soared over his head, completely silent save for the passage of air being pushed out of its way. It settled lower and lower, its landing gear down, its engines completely silent, falling towards the runway of the Ottawa airport that was less than half a mile away. Too fast, he thought, watching in fascination as the large jet drifted to the left of the runway, its left wing dropping, and the body of the jet twisting off center along its flight path. People on the road pointed, some screamed, as the massive jet fell towards an unavoidable impact with the grass well short of the runway. Almost in slow motion, the left wing clipped the ground, tearing a great chuck of earth up and throwing it skyward, as it broke free from the plane in a great scream of tearing metal. The jet pivoted, its nose slamming into the ground, the jet disappearing in a massive fireball of exploding jet fuel. Fragments of the jet, torn and jagged pieces of aluminum, scattered along the runway in a pinwheeling cloud of flame and smoke. Vladimir knew there could be no survivors from such a crash. The shock wave, heat and pressure, passed by him, barely ruffling his exquisitely kept blond hair.

Knowing that this was an approach path for many other aircraft, he then turned and looked in the direction that the plane had come. In the distance he could see another jet, crippled and inverted, falling silently from the sky, exploding in a massive fireball in the direction of a heavily populated suburb. Even further behind that one, there was another, barely seen, diving towards the earth in a near vertical descent. On a hunch he looked towards the far end of the airport where he knew that jets would be taking off. He didn’t see any aircraft, but explosions and rising pillars of black smoke told him all he needed to know. He had a strange thought then, wondering how many people had died in the past few minutes as a result of plane crashes alone.

Victor, always one of his more loyal and intelligent men, stepped up beside him and took his elbow in his hand.

“Vlad, we must get away from here, it will get very dangerous soon I think,” he said softly.

“Yes, we are close to Staray Papa’s home,” Vladimir said, mostly to himself. “Though I doubt even that will be safe after not so long a time.”

The small group moved out, abandoning the Maybach to its fate. The crowds still mingling on the streets in view of the airport were already beginning to move off, abandoning their vehicles. It hadn’t taken long for most to realize that their cell phones were dead, and that it was unlikely calling the CAA would be of much use anyway. It was likely that soon most people, stranded on the roads or at their work places, would begin to make their way home, trying to reunite with their families. For now, most people would just want to ensure their loved ones were safe. What most didn’t notice, though Vladimir and his men did, was that there was no sound of sirens anywhere. Vladimir concluded that it was likely all emergency services vehicles; police, firefighters, and ambulances, had suffered the same fate as every other vehicle in sight.

After a slow jog along Riverside Drive the group arrived at the modest mansion of Alexi Litvinenko, which was nestled among a tree-filled estate along the Ottawa River. Vladimir was not surprised to find the estate in a state of intense activity. It was obvious to Vladimir that the men at the house were aware of some of what was happening as they were collecting food and bottled water from the guesthouse and the poolside bar and bringing it to the main house. A few of the men had already jury-rigging a number of mountain bikes with carrying packs and were loading them with food and bottled water.

Alexi Litvinenko, his Staray Papa, his grandfather, and the leader of the Ottawa Organizatsiya, was standing on the porch, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The man was in his early 80s, and had been in charge of the Ottawa organization for over fifteen years, and in charge of a similar one in Moscow for thirty before that. No small feat in the cutthroat world of the Russian Mafia. His doctors had told him to stop drinking over three years prior, and up to this moment Vladimir had never seen him disobey their advice.

“Come Vladimir,” Alexi said grimly and with nothing in the way of a greeting. “We have much to discuss.”

Vladimir followed Alexi into the house, passing a small pile of gear laid on the floor in the foyer. He raised an eyebrow upon seeing a number of medieval crossbows, bows with arrows, swords, unusual looking spears and suits of armor. There were also a number of books on things such as bow making, and medieval politics stacked beside more modern books on medicine and engineering. What he didn’t notice were guns or ammunition, which would have been the first thing he would have expected, knowing that this house had a respectable arsenal.

“There is no need for guns anymore,” Alexi said, knowing his grandson well enough to know he had noted their absence. To prove the point he picked up a 9mm Glock from the side table, aimed it in the air and pulled the trigger. It did nothing more than make a clicking sound. He threw the gun to Vladimir as he settled onto the couch. Vladimir caught the weapon, ejected the round from the chamber, and fed in a fresh one. He pulled the trigger, noting the exact same effect.

“I was on the range in the basement, practicing, when the flash came,” he explained. “Yes, I saw the flash even in the sealed basement firing range. Very painful, but not lasting. All the guns, every last one of them, have stopped working.”

Vladimir sat down, more perplexed than alarmed. He’d read stories when he was younger, dealing with nuclear war, and had seen a few movies in his time. Something about nuclear weapons and the effect a nuclear blast could have on electronic circuits and such hovered in the background of his memory, but he recalled nothing about weapons being affected.

“Cars, jets, electrical power,” he muttered. “Now guns? What can be causing this?”

“God,” Alexi said with a snort. “Allah, some of military experiment gone awry, what does it matter? The only thing that we need to concern ourselves with here and now is what needs to be done for you and my grandchild to survive.”

Vladimir stayed silent. He had learned over the years that Alexi was likely the smartest man he had ever met, but more than that also the most intuitive. Presented with a problem he would always be ten to twenty steps ahead of anyone else, and considerably more than that if he thought it was important. That talent had saved the man’s life on many occasions and had contributed greatly to his position within the Organizatsiya.

“Soon people will realize that the authorities, the governments, the military are all now as helpless as they are. There will be no police to maintain order, and that will lead to lootings and other acts that we are all familiar with, particularly among the niggers, chinks and spics,” Alexi said calmly, his eyes focussed on a future he was picturing in his mind. “We are smarter than those sub-humans, so that is not an immediate problem. No, the larger problem will be when the food in the houses of ordinary people begins to run out, and they realize that the system that ensured food was always available in the supermarkets no longer exists.”

Alexi paused for a moment, looking thoughtfully out the window.

“Take away the acoutrements of civilization and man will revert to complete barbarism. We stay civilized because we have civilized things. Yes, when everyone begins to get hungry, that is when the real problems will begin. Perhaps in two, maybe three days, the people of this city will understand just how much their world has changed this day.”

Alexi sipped at his whiskey, closing his eyes with a moment of enjoyment, and then nodded towards the pile of weapons and equipment in the foyer.

“We have a small lead on them, not much, but hopefully enough,” he said and then paused, looking at the pile of weapons in the foyer. “ I always liked medieval weapons and armor, you know. In childhood I would play with my armored toy soldiers, dream of heroic battles and mythical adventures. I learned in the Great Patriotic War against the fascists that real war was not so pretty, but even afterward I still loved the look and feel of ancient weapons and armor. A more romantic age, I believe.”

Alexi pulled a cigar out of his jacket pocket, sniffed it, savoring the aroma, and then went through the ritual of lighting it properly. Vladimir knew this was also something that would have sent Alexi’s doctor into a fit. He knew saying anything, voicing concern, would be wasted breath. Alexi slowly exhaled, watching as the smoke rose upwards, a smile on his face.

“Cohiba Robustos,” he said examining the cigar in his hand. “Cubans, not something that will be easy to obtain in the future I imagine. Pity. Be sure to take my supply for future trade, just not all of them.”

He paused for a moment longer and then went back to his original topic.

“Luckily for us that my little hobby has brought such great returns. What weapons and armor I have collected will keep you and your men alive in the coming months, if you are smart. The books I have acquired over the years will also serve you quite well.”

Alexi rose and walked to the bar, placing his glass on the countertop. Using a pair of solid silver tongs he reached into the ice bucket and withdrew an ice cube, stared at it thoughtfully and chuckled softly, before placing it in his glass. He poured the whiskey into the glass, and then stood holding it while looking out onto the back lawn of his home.

“You will take most of my men with you,” he continued. “Your estate is close, which is fortunate, and can be defended and fortified with little effort. I have already sent men out on errands, and if they are successful they will make their way to your home.”

Alexi walked back to the couch, settling into it with a sigh. He looked at Vladimir, making eye contact and appraising him. He had known this man all his life, watched him grow, taught him, mentored him and never once had doubts about his abilities. There was no real way to know if he was enough of a man to handle what he believed was coming.

“You will need to be ruthless, Vladimir,” he said simply. “More ruthless than you can possibly imagine. You must survive, my great grandson must survive. And Russia must survive, through us, for I have no faith that many will survive as civilized people in the Rodina.”

Vladimir sat on the couch, the early morning sun streaming through the large windows into the family room. Outside he could hear a few birds chirping, the gentle sound of the wind rustling through the many trees in the yard. Everything seeming to be so perfectly normal, and at the same time so completely unbelievable. God had swept his hand over the planet and passed His judgement.

“You believe this is a permanent state then?” The thought wasn’t new for him, but it was the first time he had voiced it to someone else. There was always some slim hope that this was only a temporary situation, though Vladimir wasn’t sure he really believed that.

“Permanent enough,” Alexi said simply. “A time of great dying is coming Vladimir. Great dying, and great killing.”