Countdown

By 7 pm, the diner was half full of customers. Bill was busy making drinks, and Lance was long gone; the tremor in Rome seen earlier on the TV was enough to send him home to his family. Quintus, however, remained at the counter, watching TV and drinking umpteen cups of coffee. Luckily, he was impervious to the effects of caffeine. In the past 24 hours, he'd already watched more television than he had in the past decade. It was an extraordinary time.

Quintus checked his watch again. It wasn't long until the big quake was due to hit Rome, according to Goyette's prediction. Over the course of history, he had seen many ruined towns and cities, especially the wasteland of Eastern Europe following the Mongol invasions and later in Western Europe during World War II. The thought of something similar befalling Rome soured his gut, but he had to see if it would eventuate.

If Goyette's quake did transpire, it was evidence enough that what Tai had trained him for had come. In such a development, he'd cancel his job interview scheduled for the next day and get himself to an international airport to catch a flight to China. The only thing that his teacher told him was that when the end times arrived, he would have to return to White Dragon Mountain. He wasn't sure if his mission remained valid, but Tai's words were all he had to go on.

Quintus sensed the people in the traffic outside the diner were driving home or at least somewhere with a TV or WiFi to watch what would transpire, to see if the end really was nigh. But he failed to pick up that among them, there were some, like those in a white Humvee and a following black limousine, who couldn't care less about the fate of the world.

Unsavory

A downside of my telling you this story is I must listen to or be inside the heads of some unsavory characters. On this occasion, I was an unseen witness to a conversation between five men in the back of the stretched limousine that had just driven past the diner.

All of them were simply appalling individuals, including 34-year-old Albert Peach, the account manager from Black Crest. He was as spineless as he was morally corrupt. Among the others were Marx's henchmen — Vacher and Irfan. You should already have a fair idea of who they are.

Seated opposite the Black Crest staff were the Amado drug cartel's Hector Herera and his sidekick Antonio Chavez. The Amado were sadists; beheadings were their trademark.

Fueled by alcohol and other substances, all five were full of loose talk and bravado. Despite the 'jolliness' of it all, Irfan was looking back, checking for tails. Herera slapped him on the knee.

'You're making me nervous tipo! No one's going to tangle with us,' the cartel lieutenant said.

Herera thumbed towards his driver and another tough-looking brute in the front.

'My warriors are former Mexican special forces, same as the guys in the Humvee. All U.S. trained,' he said with exaggerated pride. 'No doubt Marx hires quality also, eh?' he said, referring to Irfan and Vacher.

'Yeah, these guys were both black ops,' Peach said way too eagerly.

Vacher gave Peach a displeased sideways glance.

'Who said anything about black ops?' Vacher asked Peach. 'Do you even know anything about black ops?

Herera butted in.

'C'mon, no one cares. Relax guys,' he said. 'I'm hungry; let's eat.'

Herera tapped his driver on the shoulder and issued orders in Spanish.

'Felix, find us somewhere to eat. American food is okay. In fact, go back to that old-style diner we passed before. Tell the Humvee to follow.'

The FBI

Three FBI agents from a special surveillance team were in the back of a moving unmarked van. The one calling the shots was 42-year-old Chris Pena. He and the other two watched monitors showing chopper vision of the cartel's Humvee and limousine.

A brief crackle of static was heard before a voice from the police surveillance helicopter came through a speaker system.

'Both subject vehicles pulling over, turning around on Ryland,' said the voice.

Pena's cellphone vibrated, and after checking the caller's identity, he took the call.

'Agent, what've you got for me?' he asked Joseph Rose, who was phoning in from an FBI strategic information and operations center somewhere in Virginia.

'Zero information so far on the two new arrivals,' Rose said, referring to Vacher and Irfan. 'But I have something on Herera's preppy chaperone.'

Pena, still watching the monitor, switched on the phone's speaker so all could listen.

'His name is Albert Peach, a business development manager for Black Crest, a hedge fund management firm based in NYC. He is pretty dull, but his boss, Aaron Marx, is plenty colorful,' Rose said.

'Pad on the Hamptons, I presume,' Pena said.

'Bit darker than that.'

'How dark are we gonna go?'

'Forget Wall Street, pal, this freaking guy is a member of several secret occult societies, funds an annual witchcraft event in Georgia, and is a practicing Satanist.'

Pena raised his eyebrows.

'You never cease surprising me, agent Rose, on what you can dig up.'

'Depending on your worldview, he also backs some dubious causes, among them the Hindley chain of abortion clinics, and finances some inane woke causes.'

'But any ideas why his employee is in Reno with cartel maniacs?'

'Yeah, let me get to it; this next point will mean something if you've been watching the TV recently; this guy Marx provided the startup money for Temple Science Ministries and its founder Chuck Goyette.'

'Sure, so he has a diverse portfolio,' Pena said.

'But listen, it's understood he's made most of his billions off the radar through the likes of the Amado cartel,' Rose said.

'Is he under investigation by anyone?'

'Not currently. He has friends in high places. After the last global financial crisis, he was under investigation for security fraud, but it went nowhere. That was as close as anyone got to him.'

Then Rose delivered what he thought was more juicy stuff.

'But if we go east, it gets even more sinister. Marx has made a lot of dough in China, where he's well-connected with Communist Party elite. He is even on a couple of Chinese state company boards in some advisory capacity. He also has a subsidiary called Black Crow that is set to provide logistical, operational, and security services in some of China's border areas. Some say he's the most powerful white guy in China. I guess it helps that he is fluent in Mandarin and six other languages.'

Pena, by this stage, was ready to move on.

'Joe, we're getting information overload here. Any details on his links with the Amado?'

'Yeah, let me get to it. Marx is on extremely friendly terms with some high-ranking party members and one PLA military official, in particular, a General Zhou Lijun.'

'C'mon Joe; I'm running out of time,' Pena said.

'Yeah, yeah, just listen. This General Zhou has an upstart son named Lin who recently became a suspect in the production and shipping of precursor chemicals to Mexican drug cartels.'

Now we're finally getting somewhere, Pena thought. He knew the Amado cartel uses precursors shipped in from China for manufacturing meth, most notably fentanyl which is 50 times more potent than heroin.

'There's more information, data, and details about it all which I'll email you,' Rose added.

'Sure, Joe, much obliged,' Pena said as the call ended.

A minute later, an encrypted email arrived for Pena with more information about Marx. Needless to say, what the FBI thought it knew about the hedge fund manager and his associates in China was merely the tip of a very large and sinister iceberg.

Phone Call

Marx stood alone at the window of his office. Shirtless and barefoot, he took in the nighttime view of New York City. The only thing he had on was his suit pants. Satanic-themed tattoos covered his bareback.

In one hand, he held a lit cigarette and in the other an Atomos

smartphone which cost him $15,000. The Atomos was secure enough to give him the confidence no one was eavesdropping or taking his data. The person he was about to call had one as well; in fact, it was a gift he gave him the last time they met.

He scrolled through names and stopped on one that simply read: Lin.

He hit the dial button, and the call went across the globe to southwest China.

A ringtone broke the silence in a patient's room at a Chinese military hospital. Its sound didn't disturb the deathly pale General Zhou Lijun, who lay unconscious in the room's bed, nor did the two elderly women, sitting by his side, show any annoyance. That was left to hard-faced Colonel Deng Jia at the foot of the bed. He gave an evil-eye glance at the expensively dressed Lin, who pulled the ringing Atomos from his jacket pocket. He answered it, fully aware of who was at the other end.

'Mr. Marx, there's no good news,' Lin said in near faultless but accented English, the product of a college education in the U.S.

Back in his office, Marx grunted in frustration.

'Why? How is the general? I need to speak with him.'

Lin made his way out of the room and into the hallway so he could talk more freely.

'My father is sleeping. The transplant was not a success,' he said. 'The doctors call it an acute rejection. It should be treatable with drugs, but they're not working.'

This was the last thing that Marx wanted to hear. He was dependent on the general's goodwill in fulfilling his plans. What's more, he did not trust Lin to have his own father's best interests in mind.

'Your father is as strong as an ox. Can't he just get another liver?' Marx asked.

'Yes, and within a few days if he so chooses to do so, but he doesn't want to kill any more fellow Han Chinese, no matter even if they are enemies of the state. He thinks killing them is bringing him ill fortune,' said Lin, who heard Marx sigh in exasperation.

Yes, Marx knew killing innocent people for their body parts is a fire and brimstone offense that brings on retribution like no one's business, but that was not his concern. For all practical purposes, Marx needed the general alive and useful, if only for just a bit more time.

'Lin, there are over a billion people in China to choose from. Your father is high ranking PLA. What about Tibetans or Uyghurs?'

'We're trying to source other suitable liver donors in the prison system, but time is running out,' Lin replied.

Marx tried to hide the displeasure in his tone.

'Have you had time to follow up on my North Korean arrangements? Your father made some —'

Lin had the phone snatched from his hand. It was Colonel Deng. He bellowed Mandarin into the phone.

'Call back at a convenient time!' he yelled before ending the call.

The military officer thrust the phone back into Lin's hands and re-entered the general's room.

Marx knew who it was; the voice and the manner were giveaways. He also knew Deng had a deep distrust of foreigners, especially well-connected ones.

Back in the hallway, Lin was exasperated by his cousin's behavior. He gathered his thoughts. He feared losing his broader connections with Marx. His lucrative business, shipping precursor chemicals into Mexico, relied on it. Thankfully Deng was not included in that, he reminded himself, but his cousin was a part of this new North Korea deal. Maybe Deng shouldn't be involved with what Marx wants, he thought. Is it too late to have him exit?

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Lin's cell rang again, interrupting his thoughts. He answered it and listened to what was said from the other end. He nodded several times and then walked back inside the general's room, where he approached Deng and offered him the phone.

'Cousin talk to Mr. Marx,' Lin pleaded. 'There's a lot of money at risk.'

Deng reluctantly took the call.

'I have nothing more to say,' Deng said into the phone in Mandarin. 'We can communicate later.'

Marx wasn't in the mood for impertinence, and time was pressing.

'I know you comprehend English, Deng, so listen up,' he said.

'And you speak Mandarin,' Deng replied.

'I do, but that's not the point. The point is — do you want in on the North Korea arrangement?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Then act like it. For the next week, you work for me. You are mine to do as I will. Make no mistake about that. When I tell you to do something, you will do it.'

There were a few moments of silence before Deng replied.

'I will honor our agreement, but your threats only mean something while the general is alive,' he said before ending the call.

No One Laughs in Hell

With the call finished, Marx flung his phone onto the desk in disgust. Several options ran through his mind, but he knew, given the general's condition, he needed to get to China and then North Korea sooner rather than later. The schedule had to be moved forward.

While figuring out how they now needed to travel within the next couple of days, he poured himself a stiff drink. As for Deng, he had thought earlier that he needed him, but given his behavior on the call, he was no longer sure. The colonel may prove to be a liability, but his options, at this stage, were limited.

Grumbling to himself, Marx, now drink in hand, sat on a leather sofa in front of the large, framed portrait of Mao that was a gift given to him by General Zhou some 20 years previous.

Back then, Marx was a young intern with an international corporation setting up an office in Beijing, where he fell in with a crowd of debauched Communist Party princelings that the older Zhou was a part of. I won't put into your head what they got up to.

Yes, Marx has quite a checkered past. Much more than what the FBI was aware of and even more than what you think you already know, so I'll get to the point.

Marx has made a deal with the devil. The 13 Demon Kings of the Pit to be spot-on exact.

I hope that didn't come across as flippant.

There's nothing amusing at all about Hell, believe me, and that's something Marx was aware of.

I may have taken you to a scene in Hell earlier in this tale, but it was limited by design. If I could convey to you just a bit of Hell's reality, you'd probably never be the same again. Believe me when I say — no one laughs in Hell.

Fundamentally most of you, to varying degrees, are decent people, even if you forget it at times. As for Marx, he's evil to the extreme, and he knew that. In fact, like a small minority of humans, he embraced it. Indeed, he believed he had much in common with the demon kings.

But he only became aware of his deal with the demon kings eight years earlier after he went into a deep trance during a ritual at the coven of the Order of International Satanists. When he came to, he could recall the deal he made, where, in a bid to join their ranks, he agreed to be the human facilitator for the end of times, a version at least that the demon kings wanted to see played out in their favor and on their terms. They got the nod from their boss Satan and just went for it. Their goal was for everyone to end up in Hell, and Marx, as he recalled, agreed to help with whatever was required.

Undeniably, the fund manager was proud of the 'bargain' he made with the demon kings, a deal which, if he were successful, would see him enthroned as the 14th king upon his return.

If he failed, however, there'd be no throne waiting but instead, an eternity spent at Hell's deepest level. Despite his bravado and wickedness, that thought horrified him and drove him onwards to play his part in bringing on humanity's demise.

He presumed that was why he was permitted to have such memories of not only his time in the abyss but, more importantly, all his past earthly existences as well. The demons believed Marx had to be fully aware of what was at stake for him to perform optimally. The only risk was that such memories could send him insane.

As for the coming earthquake in Rome, that was actually Marx's idea based on a throwaway suggestion made as he bargained with the demon kings, who surprised him by taking it onboard.

A large digital clock on a cabinet told him it wasn't long till that would transpire. He finished his drink and then found his TV remote, and turned on the walled television in preparation.

For a moment, he thought of asking War, who was probably busy drawing in the boardroom, if he wanted to come in and watch Rome be destroyed but quickly changed his mind. For some reason, Marx found War's presence unsettling. Otherworldly types have a habit of doing that, he supposed.

Hungry Henchmen

Away from prying eyes, Tina and Gabriela flipped a coin in the kitchen to see who would deliver Quintus his order of carrot cake and ice cream. Gabriela won the toss and whooped in delight. Tina laughed, going along for the fun of it. Privately, she was only captivated by the stranger's striking halo. She only wished to talk with him to get to know who he was and what he was about.

'How long's he been here for now?' she asked Gabriela.

'It's been hours since he first walked in, 'bout mid-afternoon.'

'He a friend of Bill's?'

'Not sure, but they've been chatty.'

The subject of their attention remained seated at the diner counter, waiting for the aforementioned dessert. He was checking his watch. It was just a little over 20 minutes until the anticipated destruction of Rome.

Given that the diner was now three-quarters full, Bill was busy making drink orders by the coffee machine at the counter. But, like pretty much everyone else, his mind was on what could happen to the Italian capital and what that would mean for the rest of the world.

'Tell me if something happens, okay?' Bill asked Quintus regarding the TV.

'Will do.

'It's surreal, isn't it, that the end of the world could end up being broadcast live?'

'That it is.'

Then, on the TV, the chubby but well-dressed figure of Chuck Goyette appeared.

'Okay, Bill, they're back interviewing that guy, Goyette,' Quintus said, nodding towards the walled television. Bill paused what he was doing and grabbed the television's remote to increase its volume.

Everyone in the diner turned to watch. Tina and Gabriela even exited the kitchen to see Goyette being interviewed outside a chic hotel in LA's West Hollywood. Bill had the volume up just in time, so all could hear the news reporter's one and only question.

'It appears Rome's residents have largely ignored your prediction; most of them are reportedly remaining in the city. How do you feel about that?' the reporter asked Goyette.

'Of course, I feel sorry, I do feel sorry for them, and it's only natural that I feel this way as I made the announcement in advance for their sake and no one else's, certainly not mine. I doubt the people of New York City will be as foolish,' he said before walking off, leaving the reporter.

The news broadcast cut to a commercial break. Bill muted the sound.

'He didn't sound too sorry,' Bill remarked to Quintus as he went back to making drinks.

A split second later, the hair on the back of Quintus' neck stood up. It wasn't a delayed reaction to the TV interview or any pre-quake nerves. He just felt something very wicked come his way. Instinctively he half-swiveled around, and the first thing he saw was Vacher entering the diner. Their eyes met. For several seconds both men held the other's stare.

Quintus then shifted his gaze onto those who Vacher accompanied; Irfan, Peach, Herera, and Chavez. After they walked past, he noted four additional suspicious-looking types — Herera's bodyguards — loitering outside by a parked Humvee and a limousine.

Meanwhile, Tina took Vacher and the other four to a window booth. Vacher couldn't help but notice how nervous the young woman was and how she avoided eye contact with them all. As she handed him a menu, he gave her a gruff look while eyeing her nametag.

'Why thank you, Tina,' he said curtly. 'You can get us five coffees for freaking starters.'

Tina nodded as Vacher and the others gave her more details on what types of coffees they wanted, and she then mumbled about returning to take further orders. She left them, gave their order to Bill, and then went to clear another table. Before collecting an armful of plates, she patted down her brow, wiping away beads of sweat.

The amount of darkness she saw entering the diner with the five men startled her. She'd never seen such a concentration of wickedness. Each of them was covered by a dark haze to the point their figures were nearly obscured. The four men outside waiting by the vehicles were likewise swimming in darkness. It was the opposite of what she saw in Quintus.

DING!

Time was moving quickly, and Bill hit his little call bell by the coffee-making machine. He placed three coffees on the counter, and Tina came to pick up.

'For table 13. Espressos to follow,' Bill told her. 'Be careful,' he added, referring to the ominous five.

Quintus watched Tina take the order to the booth. He noted how they gawked at her as she handed out the coffees.

'Hey, chicka that's three. We ordered five,' Herera said menacingly.

'Yes, two more are coming; the espressos, they're being made now. Won't be long,' she softly replied.

As Tina turned to leave, Herera gave her a noisy slap on the behind.

'Be quick then chicka. Ándale! Ándale!'

The others in the booth cackled, but the act caused a hush throughout the rest of the diner.

Tina walked on, red-faced.

At that moment, Quintus wanted to deal with the men in the booth there and then but instead restrained himself. He remained seated out of concern that any intervention would only escalate matters, making it worse.

However, Bill had had enough. He left his coffee machine, came around from the counter, passed both Tina and Quintus, and approached the men in the booth.

The five stopped snickering and looked up at the owner-manager with the big mop of hair in front of them, hands on hips.

'Excuse me, you can't mistreat my staff,' Bill said.

Herera rolled his eyes and moaned.

'C'mon, man! You hire people like that; what do you expect, huh? The chicka has a nice rump,' Herera said. 'Smokin' hot!'

Bill glared squarely at Herera.

'Take your trash talk somewhere else. Finish your coffees, then get the hell out. If you're not gone in ten minutes, I'm calling the police,' Bill said.

Herera quickly stood up and got in Bill's face.

'Hey, you show some respect tipo!' Herera yelled as he began to poke Bill in the chest with a finger. 'What do you want, huh? You want me to get loco on all your people here?'

Behind them, Vacher didn't want trouble. He leaned over the booth's table and tugged on Herera's shirt.

'Hey, not here, not now,' Vacher said quietly. 'We can sort this out by other means, another time.'

Herera swatted Vacher's hand away, and he continued harassing Bill, who was now wondering if this guy was all bluff or just downright crazy. He was beginning to realize that it was probably the latter.

'Best you leave now. No one wants trouble,' Bill said, trying not to look or sound alarmed.

'I'm fine with trouble,' Herera said. 'Bring it on!'

And with that, Herera raised his right hand above his head and made a signal to three of his four henchmen outside in the parking lot to come in.

The three saw their boss' signal and assertively rushed into the diner.

Quintus saw them each pulling out pistols as they moved. They were going in the direction of Herera, and along the way, they'd have to go past Quintus, who was closer to the door entrance.

Once the three were positioned in the diner, Quintus knew these thugs would take further control of the situation. He figured it was now or never to deal with this mess before it got any worse. As the first of the three thugs rushed past, he put out his foot.

'That's enough,' he said steadily.

The first thug tripped over Quintus' foot and fell hard, face first. Quintus next dealt with the two following. His punches were swift and exact, hitting acupressure spots that would result in both being paralyzed for at least 12 hours. After they crumpled to the floor, Quintus returned his attention to the thug that he tripped, who was now trying to get off the floor. With a right hook, Quintus smashed him again to the floor and then followed through with two sharp jabs to acupressure spots, immobilizing him.

Nearby the coffee machine, Tina watched Quintus then move across the dining area towards Bill and Herera by the booth. To her, he was an orb of magnificent golden light cutting through a fog of darkness.

Once Quintus reached the booth, he pushed Bill out of harm's way and then tried to take out Herera but was blocked by Vacher, who sprung from the booth with pistol in hand. Quintus responded with a powerful roundhouse kick that connected and knocked Vacher off his feet and onto his back on the floor.

Herera tried to flee, but Quintus grabbed him by the collar and yanked him around, and then jabbed him sharply in the armpit, directly pressuring a sweet spot. Herera was now frozen in a crouch-like stance. As a follow-up, Quintus did the same to Chavez, who toppled over onto the floor.

With a knife in hand, Irfan sprang at Quintus from the booth only to be sideswiped by Bill, who came back into the fight with a three-punch combination. Irfan dropped dazed to the floor.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

Things went up a notch as someone outside began firing an automatic weapon into the diner. Tina saw that it was the thug in the parking lot who was now armed with a bullpup assault rifle.

Bullets slammed into glass, furniture, and walls. Diner patrons and staff screamed and dived for cover. A bullet smashed into the coffee machine just a few feet away from Tina as she ducked behind the counter. From there, she couldn't see much; she could only listen to the commotion. Shots being fired. People screaming. She heard one person yell in pain — it sounded like Bill.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

More shooting. The chaos appeared to up a notch as a firefight erupted outside. She was unable to see it, but the FBI agents from the van had appeared on the scene; it was now one cartel thug versus four well-armed feds.

Amidst the confusion and clamor, Tina saw at the end of the counter two bad guys scurrying past in a crouch; it was Irfan and Vacher with their dark aura mists trailing. They didn't look in her direction, they were too busy fleeing into the kitchen. Meanwhile, unknown to her, the thug from outside was making a fighting withdrawal into the diner, bringing with him the firefight and all its noise.

Tina similarly couldn't see that from the kitchen, Irfan and Vacher managed to exit the diner via the backdoor to escape into the night. By the time they'd jumped a fence beyond the parking lot, the gun-wielding thug back in the diner was shot dead by the FBI.

It was the last bullet fired for the night.

The madness was over.

Still, behind the counter, Tina could hear people whimpering and crying. She could also hear Quintus tending to Bill.

She crouched up and peered over the counter to witness all the carnage of the dinner. There were prostrate bodies of frightened people everywhere. She saw Isabella towards the back, hiding behind a table. Their eyes met, and each gave a wave, indicating they were both alright.

Miraculously, the only two who looked dead to Tina were the gun-wielding thug lying near the doorway and Peach, whose lifeless body was slumped in the booth he was in. Both men now had no auras.

She saw paralyzed Herera frozen in his crouched stance. It made little sense to her why he was that way, but she didn't dwell on it as her attention was taken by the glowing light of Quintus tending to Bill, who had been shot in the upper thigh. Quintus was already in the process of using strips of tablecloth to cover the wound that Bill was holding a napkin on to stem the loss of blood.

Thinking quickly, Tina grabbed a first aid box that was under the coffee machine and took it around to Quintus and Bill. Once she got next to them, she opened it and passed Quintus a bandage.

'This help?' she asked.

'Sure will,' Quintus replied.

'How's he doing?'

'He's lost some blood, in a bit of shock, but he'll pull through.'

'Hang in there Bill,' she said as Quintus began wrapping the bandage around Bill's thigh and over the cloth already covering the wound.

'Freak show over?' Bill faintly asked through his pain.

'Yeah, no more drama. Those lunatics won't be doing anything nasty for a while,' Quintus replied.

Tina pulled her phone out from her pocket and began dialing a number.

'I'll call an ambulance,' she said. 'Actually, sounds like some are on their way, maybe,' she added.

Indeed, distant but approaching sirens could be heard. Around the same time, Pena, the head of the FBI team, entered the diner with his weapon raised.

'FBI. Everybody, please stay down, remain as you are, don't move until we say otherwise,' Pena said.

He saw Quintus and Tina tending to Bill.

'But you two folks keeping nursing that wounded man,' he said. 'Ambulances will be here soon,' he added.

'Everyone else, just keep your hands where we can see them, just till we get everything sorted.'

Everyone else complied except for Herera, who remained frozen as he was.

As the sound of ambulances came nearer, Quintus tightened the bandage a bit more and gave Bill a smile.

'You're gonna be fine Bill. Paramedics will be here soon, they'll give you something for the pain.'

Quintus then looked to Tina by his side.

'You okay?'

She nodded yes and managed to smile just as two ambulances pulled up outside. The glare of their flashing lights bounced off the diner's windows.

Then someone screamed.

'Oh, no, oh my gosh!'

It was a diner customer, a middle-aged woman. She was lying on the floor but still managed to point at the walled television that still worked despite being hit by a bullet.

'It's happening!'

Quintus looked up at the TV, and what he saw made his blood run cold. It was dawn in Rome. Video was being shot from the safety of a helicopter. The earthquake had begun. The first thing he saw was the collapse of the Colosseum, then the Roman Forum. Nearby ant-like figures of people on the streets tried in vain to outrun falling debris. Not far away, the quake reduced the Vatican to rubble.

The video from the helicopter panned, offering a broader panorama of the city. Seismic waves spread. Wide-scale devastation followed.

'It's the end! It's the end of everything!' the woman screamed.