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unprotected and lying in what scientists had found out to be
the main hotspot of the atmospheric storms.
    The people living on the Isle of Wight, or at
least those who lived in Ryde, tried to leave the island as soon as
possible for the nearest shielded area. A task made nigh impossible
by the fact that everyone preferred living in the protection
of the shielded cities, but the space was too small to take them
all in. Bunkers were built outside the shields, subterranean
shelters, complete with fresh water supplies, to accommodate those
who couldn’t make it into a city.
    There was a vast underground network on the
Isle of Wight. Few parts of the island were still populated, at
least over the ground. Under the ground was an abundance of
apartments, shops, schools, and even playgrounds. The only people
who still lived on the surface were the meteorologists and
geologists who studied the storms, the earth, and the vegetation.
They lived, and mostly worked, in a series of low, steel-enforced
concrete buildings, semi-hidden from the storms by a grove of dead
oak trees they had relocated there for that purpose. Apart from the
trees, now little more than skeletons, the area mostly consisted of
rocks and dried-up, infertile earth. The frequent storms corroded
the vacated buildings, whipped dust and dirt through the deserted
streets, slowly ablated the city layer by layer.
    One of the geologists was Peter Wagner, a
well-liked professor of geo-science, since thirteen months previous
a widower. He was studying the effects the storms had on the
planet, and the question whether new life was possible, given that
at this time it looked more like no life was ever going to be
possible at all anymore. But Peter had his own speculations on what
was causing the atmospheric storms. Speculations that were sound
but far out, and had to do with developing a whole new lifestyle
that was more in tune with the planet they were living on. His
theories were widely known, but less liked by his colleagues than
Peter as a person was.
    His office and sleeping quarters, he didn’t
make a difference, not anymore, were in bungalow number three. All
the buildings were connected with one another, to allow the
scientists to move freely without having to go outside. He was
evaluating his latest readings, waiting for his assistant Luke to
come back and bring lunch. Or perhaps tea—he forgot the time
occasionally, a quirk less laughable when taking into consideration
that it was always gray and dusty outside, and Peter didn’t possess
a wristwatch. He didn’t care what time it was. He only cared about
his work; it was all he had left these days.
    So absorbed in his work was he, hunched over
the desk like an ancient man, writing down the notes by hand rather
than using a computer, that the bleeping of the telephone startled
him. A permanent smear in his notebook would forever vouch for
that. He let it ring for a little while, waiting for Luke to get
it. The memory of his assistant leaving the lab to get food
surfaced in the end, though, and Peter picked up the receiver after
all.
    “ Hello, darling,” said Sally Sheldon’s
pleasant voice. Peter carefully put the pen down to avoid another
blotch. A warm smile appeared on his face, although he was almost
sure Sally couldn’t see it.
    “Sally? How did you know it was me?” he
asked. She couldn’t see him, could she? He rarely answered
the phone himself, his sister knew that. Perhaps the affectionate
address had been meant for Luke.
    “ I called your main office first and got
Luke. He redirected me. He also told me you’ve been working weird
hours lately.”
    “Young Luke doesn’t know what he’s talking
about.” Luke was not two years Peter’s junior, but Peter calling
Luke his young assistant and Luke calling Peter an old professor
was a private joke the two of them shared.
    “ So did you see it?” Sally prompted,
after she shared with her brother the latest office gossip she had
fresh from Luke,