Channelling The War of the Worlds

 Welcome to The Spot Writers.

This month’s prompt: anything to do with global warming.

This week’s story was written by Phil Yeats. In September, 2021, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. He’s now published They All Come Tumbling Down, the final volume in his The Road to Environmental Armageddon trilogy. For information about these books, or his older soft-boiled mysteries, visit his website https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

 

 

Channelling The War of the Worlds

by Phil Yeats

 

“Good afternoon, everyone. Our lead story is the wildfire situation.”

I paused for dramatic effect and waited for Martin, the only other occupant of our subterranean studio, to signal me. He nodded, and I launched into my patter.

“As everyone knows, North America has endured its warmest and driest winter on record. Not just specific parts of the continent; everywhere’s parched. And the trend has continued through spring. It’s much hotter and dryer than usual.

“The grasslands and forests are tinder-dry, ripe for any spark to set them off. Fires are igniting everywhere, and they’re, like, spreading like wildfire.”

I paused again, waiting for Martin’s nod.

“The fires are fiercely aggressive. Our best firefighters with our best equipment cannot contain them.

“Today, we have reports from Los Angeles, Vancouver, and in the east, a small Appalachian Mountain town. We go first to L.A. Take it away, Sam.”

A nondescript white male face appeared on the monitor. “Angelenos are facing a dire situation. Two highways to the north and east are closed, overrun by wildfires, and we’re feeling hemmed in. Out of control fires on the north and west of the city, the Pacific Ocean to the west, and the Mexican border to the south. No letup in sight. People are panicking.”

On Martin’s signal, I continued with my narrative as my face replaced Sam’s on my monitor. “Next, we venture up the Pacific coast and across the international border to Vancouver. What’s the situation in the frozen north?”

“Not frozen, that’s for sure,” our correspondent said with a laugh. “The immediate concern here is two Stanley Park fires that ignited overnight. They’ve joined to make one huge out-of-control fire. The road through the park to the Lion’s Gate Bridge is closed, and the city engineers fear damage to the hundred-year-old suspension bridge. That would disrupt traffic for months, perhaps years.

“Vancouver’s crown jewel, four hundred hectares of forest primeval in the centre of the city, will henceforth be a major scar on her landscape.”

After a brief pause, another face created by artificial intelligence disappeared from the screen, and I plunge on. “Turning now to the eastern side of the continent…” I make a theatrical pivot away from the camera.

“Wow, what’s that? Sorry folks, I’m looking through our studio window at the forest behind our station. We’re at the edge of a major North American city and the wildfires are suddenly right on our doorstep. I can see flames that weren’t there five minutes ago. And wow, another flareup only 300 metres from us…” I pause again, allowing our audience to feast on the video feed of an encroaching forest fire. 

“Sorry folks, we must go, abandon ship, jump from the ramparts, get the hell outta here. Everyone, we’re leaving. Now!”

Martin reached over and touched my shoulder. “It’s okay, I killed your mike. You can cut the histrionics.”

I relaxed. “Worked well, don’t you think? Will you run a disclaimer?”

“Already running. It says your report is a work of fiction that describes a scenario that could easily occur anytime, anywhere. I’ll repeat it two or three times and end the broadcast.”

I smiled. “Sounds great. We did well, didn’t we?”

“For sure. Our hit rate started jumping half way through your spiel. Can’t do better than that, and it must be the start of a viral video.” He paused for a breath. “You ran long, so you’re running late. You gotta get outta here and off to work.”

I glanced at the time on my phone, grabbed my bike, and headed for the solid steel door that separated Martin’s underground studio from the outside world. I pulled open the door and pushed my wheels along the dingy passageway. A minute later, I emerged into the hot, grimy world of urban decay and pedalled toward the city centre.

Sorry. No mention of who I am or what I do for a living. If the powers that be locate us, they’ll shut us down in an instant. And Martin, that’s not his real name.

 

*****

The Spot Writers—Our members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/