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It had begun two days ago, when the main power stations in Vioda had been destroyed, following on the heels of the widening rings of explosions signaling the bombing of the transportation centers. There had been riots and looting in the sudden absence of alarm systems and reliable refrigeration, which had escalated when the main police station had become the next target. After that, any tall building seemed fair game for firebombs, and anyone’s home could be the next public treasure trove. Now, two days later, the police forces of the surrounding cities had been decimated by the mobs they had been called in to contain, and the military guard had been sent to the countryside and the south to keep order in the last places still functioning. Firefighters in many places had had to stop using city water, after contamination began turning ordinary smoke noxious enough to send them and bystanders to overloaded hospitals. Three more population centers, seven cities’ worth, had had their power taken out, and all the transportation centers were gone. No one was confident any longer that the situation would pass, and no one could seem to think of what to do.
Darica was among the “no one.” Two nights ago, she had awakened to the sound of sirens as the local police and guardsmen took whatever transportation they could find and sped out to Vioda. She and her parents had stayed up for an hour watching the news footage on the nets, then gone back to bed, all of them confident in the abilities of the emergency crews to put everything right by morning. There had been warnings on the nets as they watched over breakfast, reports that things were not yet back to normal, but her parents had ‘ported to work and she to school, and they had all made it there alive. Two of her teachers had stayed out, as had several others of the staff and many students. Her classes were combined with others, and the lessons were mostly put aside in favor of watching the vids. Sometime during lunch, the power went out, and the vids were replaced with emergency radios. By the time the explosions of the transportation centers in Mananda came, no one was paying attention anymore. She and her classmates were taken home in hastily-arranged caravans of trucks and buses, either crammed all the way to the aisles or jostling and sliding in spaces made for fruit crates. Her parents hadn’t made it home until long past dark. They had half-melted frozen custard for dinner, and slept cocooned in blankets. The next morning, she had awakened to find a note on her bedtable. We’re joining the volunteer forces. One will last longer here than three. Don’t leave if you don’t have to, and we’ll be back. Remember Aunt Jen’s birthday. We love you. Her parents had signed it. She had heard nothing from them since.