The Silence Before

Monica Ryan sipped her third cup of coffee. She stared at the notes on her manuscript until the words bled together, forming an emerald river down each margin. Her editor, Katherine Wrangle, preferred using green when making her revisions.

“Green means go. It seems more positive,” she explained a decade ago when they began working together.

Green, red, purple, or pink, the extensive notes always meant several revisions until she crapped out the perfect YA vampire romance set in an elite gothic high school. Not that Monica didn’t like her stories—she just didn’t love them. Ten years ago, when she published her first novel, she enjoyed writing. Pressers excited her. Seeing her books on the shelves of major retailers brought a sense of accomplishment. These days, the idea of a book tour made her want to lock her door, crawl under the thick comforter thrown across her bed back at home, and stay there.  

Her therapist informed her she no longer experienced a sense of fulfillment from her work because she no longer took pride in it.

“Bullshit!” she had denied, staring Margie Stein—a no-nonsense Jewish woman from Long Island with a thick New York accent—in the eyes. 

Her therapist was right.

She hated the cotton candy fluff her publishers insisted she write. She had a story to tell—a story that didn’t involve insipid teenage vampires at a vampire school. (Why did a vampire need to go to high school anyway?)

Monica glanced up from her notes again, frowning as a group of airport staff huddled near the gate. They whispered in hurried tones, motioning toward the runway while they spoke. One looked at the clock before walking away, leaving the others anxious. Monica followed his movements before focusing on her laptop, her vampires demanding her full attention. 

“Anyone sitting here?” The question pulled Monica from her manuscript.

She looked up, connecting the deep timbre of a male voice to the striking man, pointing to the empty seat next to her luggage.

Monica shook her head, her mouth suddenly dry, and she took another sip of her tepid coffee. She watched as the stranger folded himself into the chair, tucking his black duffle bag beneath it. His legs were long, and Monica guessed he was over six feet tall. The small airport seat made him seem even larger, like a giant in a miniature display; she giggled at the image.

He looked up, flashing her a white smile. She hadn’t noticed his teeth before, but they were damn near perfect. He had movie star teeth, and Monica wondered if they were veneers. She returned his smile, then pretended to stare at her computer. Every few minutes, she made some excuse to turn her head in his direction. A family walking by with their two children following close by, their little miniature roller suitcase rattling along the tiled floor. A portly man a few rows down, coughing loudly without covering his mouth—gross. Every time she looked his way, Monica noticed something else.

He wore a casual polo shirt and dark slacks. His loafers appeared new, reflecting the light from the harsh fluorescent lights above. He appeared athletic. The short sleeves of his shirt drew attention to his muscular, tanned arms. Monica studied his face again, admiring the squareness of his jaw and the thick head of brown hair that made him look like a shampoo model. She wondered if he modeled for a living, but dismissed the theory after ear-hustling some of his calls—something about mergers and acquisitions. Maybe he’s a lawyer?

As a writer, Monica’s curiosity often shaped her perception of the world. She enjoyed crafting stories about strangers she observed in the park or on the grocery line. Today, she had created a dozen stories about the people stranded at the Aberdeen International Airport, in—she wasn’t sure where Aberdeen was located. She was returning to New York from Los Angeles when her flight captain informed everyone of the change in course—they were being diverted. After landing, the airport announced the cancellation of all flights for the day. She’d taken the red eye.

Several hours later, there was still no update on flights resuming. So, Monica occupied her time by reading Katherine’s “positive” green notes and making up stories.

“Where were you headed?” Veneers asked her.

“Huh? Oh, New York. You?”

“Boston.”

“I’ve been to Boston once,” Monica said, regretting it. I’ve been to Boston once? Who says that? I’m a writer; it shouldn’t be hard to say something intelligent. 

“Yeah? So, what’s your verdict?” He angled his body toward her, twisting his large frame in the small chair.

“Cold.” So profound, Monica. Great going. “I was there for my second book tour,” she added. There you go, now that’s interesting. Be interesting.

Veneers tilted his head, curiosity in his grey eyes. “You’re a writer? What type of books do you write?”

Monica drew in a breath, almost ashamed to tell him she wrote crappy YA vampire novels for teenage girls between the ages of 13 and 18. “Young adult fiction,” she replied, tucking a riot of tight brown curls behind her left ear. They immediately sprang back into place, defying all rules of gravity.

“Would I find any of your books at the news shop?” He motioned to the airport newsstand with his chin.

Monica frowned. It had never occurred to her to browse an airport bookstore for any of her work. She glanced around the boutique airport, doubting she’d find “Darkblood Academy” inside the small newsstand. Monica made a note to check the bookshop on her next flight.

“Probably not. It’s a niche market. Unless you’re pushing ‘Twilight’ numbers… I’d be shocked to see my book at Aberdeen International.”

The man chuckled. “I’m Ward, by the way. Ward Collins.” He extended his hand. “I’m not a writer,” he teased, flashing his movie star smile.

Monica waited a beat before shaking it. His hand swallowed hers, enveloping it in his firm, warm grip. He had calluses, and she wondered how they had gotten there. Perhaps from working out? Or yard work? Maybe he had a boat. She could see him on a catamaran, sailing on the Charles River. He seemed like the sailing type.

“I’m Monica Collins—I mean Ryan,” she stammered, wishing she could disappear. “What do you do, Ward Collins, the-not-writer.” 

Ward chuckled. “I’m a lawyer. Pretty boring, I know. So, what kind of young adult fiction do you write?”

She thought about lying to him but changed her mind. I’ll never see him again anyway. Besides, maybe he had a teenage daughter who was into vampire books. He looked like he could be someone’s father—someone’s hot father. “Vampire books,” she said and reached inside her briefcase, producing a copy of “Darkblood Academy: Blood Rite.” She brought it with her because she couldn’t remember some of the plot points. The book was five years old.

She handed the hardback to Ward and watched him flip it open. He read the back flap of the jacket.

“So, you’re a die-hard Yankees fan, huh?” He looked up, raising a brow. 

Monica grinned. “Of course I am. Bronx born and raised. It’s like a sin if you aren’t a fan of the ‘Bronx Bombers.’” She gazed at him, curiosity reflecting in her brown eyes. “Let me guess, you’re a Red Sox man?”

“I think that’s a given. And now I have to stop talking to you. I can’t be seen in public with a Yankees fan. It’s bad for my rep.”

“Oh, so it’s like that, huh? I can’t stand Red Sox fans anyway.” She flashed him a teasing smile.

He laughed, flipped the pages, and stopped somewhere in the middle. Monica watched his eyes skimming the page and cringed. If he landed on chapter twelve, Amiee would have lost her virginity to Marco by then. Kill me now.

Ward returned the book to her and stood up. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and Monica sat speechless as he walked away.

“Well, I’ve never scared anyone with one of my books before,” she mumbled and tucked “Blood Rites” into her bag. An alert from her local news appeared on the laptop screen. Monica closed it out, promising she would read the articles on her flight back to New York—whenever the airlines got whatever issues they were having cleared up. She hoped it wouldn’t be much longer. 

A few minutes later, Ward returned holding a book in one hand and a cup holder with two coffees in the other. “They’re giving them out for free?”

She lifted a brow. “Books?”

He chuckled and motioned to the drinks with his chin. “Coffee.”

“Right, sorry, airport brain.” He handed her a cup. “Thank you.” She removed the lid and inhaled the rich aroma. 

Ward settled beside her again and reached into his pocket, producing several packets of sugar and two creams. He passed them to Monica and took a sip from his cup.

“You drink yours black?”

Ward nodded around a second sip. “‘It is the way.’”

“A man who takes his coffee black is either a renegade or a sociopath,” she said. “But you’re a Star Wars fan. I’ll forgive it.” 

He laughed again, and Monica decided she loved the cadence of his voice. “I think you insulted and complimented me in the same breath.”

She joined his laughter. “Sorry, I kind of lose my social filter when I’m stranded in an airport with a stranger.”

Ward regarded her for a moment, a grin splitting his face. He reached beside him and handed her a book. She had almost forgotten about it. Monica took it from him, her fingers brushed his, and her skin tingled. She looked down at the paperback, noticing for the first time that it was hers—“Darkblood Academy: Blood Moon.” The latest addition to her Darkblood series.

She lifted an eyebrow, her mouth going slack. “You bought my book?”  

“Yeah, it’s not every day I meet a New York Times bestselling author.”

She smiled, tracing her fingers over the raised foil title. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Yes, I should. I was hoping you’d sign it for me.”

“Of course.” She set her coffee aside and reached into her bag again, fishing out a ballpoint pen. She turned to the front page and stared at the space beneath her name. What could she write about the stranger from Aberdeen International Airport? Her pen touched the page, and the words flowed. 

To Ward:

A renegade who drinks his coffee black and loves the Red Sox, you’ve definitely embraced the dark side of the Force. But I guess knowing how you take your coffee means we’re not strangers anymore. May this book be more captivating than being stuck in an airport, and may the Yankees always prevail."

-Monica Ryan 

At the last second, she added her phone number beneath her signature. She handed the book to him with a teasing smile. “I guess we’re officially acquainted now.”

Ward read the inscription with a soft chuckle, and Monica hoped he’d use that number sometime. A trip from Boston to New York was only a one-hour flight. “So, about that Yankee’s thing… is it negotiable?”

Monica grinned, shaking her head. She was about to respond when the coughing man switched on the overhead flatscreen television and turned up the volume.

News Reporter:

“KTVS is receiving reports of… strange activity in major cities around the globe. Details are unclear at this moment, but several sources have confirmed unidentified—”

Something interrupted the feed, freezing the male news anchor mid-sentence. The screen flashed, and a pixelated image of the reporter reappeared. “We’re being told—hold on—” He touched his earpiece. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re still trying to confirm this, but there are reports of explosions—no, entire cities…” His speech became unintelligible before the audio cut out, then resumed a few seconds later. “…being wiped out. The feed from our correspondents has gone dark—wait, we’re receiving something from Paris—”

The screen darkened again. By that time, a small crowd had gathered around the television. “What’s going on?” A blonde woman asked, looking at the man beside her.

“Hey! Change the channel!” someone shouted behind Monica.

An airport staff member took control of the TV, flipping through the channels. Most stations were snowy, and the images were too fuzzy to tell what was on the screen.

“Anyone’s phone working? I don’t have any service!” A teenage boy said as he fiddled with his cell.

“Mine isn’t.”

“Neither is mine.”

Several people murmured as they checked their cell phones. Monica moved through the crowd, locating her seat. She reached into her bag and fished out her phone, checking for service—no bars.  

“Any luck?” Ward’s familiar voice comforted her.

She looked up. “I don't have service,” she confirmed, her voice calm even as her heart raced.

Monica realized this wasn’t an ordinary flight delay, and her hand shook as she searched her contacts, landing on her mother. She pressed the call button, but nothing happened. She sat down, her knees giving way beneath her. Ward sat beside her, taking her hand.

“ATTENTION PASSENGERS, PLEASE BE ADVISED THERE ARE NO OUTGOING FLIGHTS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. PLEASE COLLECT YOUR LUGGAGE AT THE BAGGAGE CLAIM AND EXIT THE AIRPORT.”

“I—I don’t have anywhere to go.” Monica’s voice shook. “I don’t even know where we are.”

Ward frowned. “There has to be something they can do. They can’t just throw us out on the street.” He rose to his feet.

The airport worker flipped the channel on the television, and a blurry image of a burning city flashed across the screen. Monica gasped as she made out the Eiffel Tower, now a mass of wires and twisted metal where the iconic symbol once stood. The city was unrecognizable as plumes of smoke rose in the air and fires painted the sky a deep orange. Monica’s heart pounded, and her stomach twisted into knots. Ward squeezed her hand before wrapping his arms around her shoulder.

“It’ll be alright.” His warm breath caressed her cheek. He was close enough to smell his cologne, and Monica admonished herself for noticing something that inane while they were in the middle of—a war? The apocalypse?

She had a half-finished apocalyptic novel on her hard drive. Nothing she'd written was as scary as this.

The television flickered again, and the studio reappeared. The anchor was gone, replaced by an empty chair. Someone in the background ran across the office. Another person shouted off-screen, but it was hard to make out their words. 

Monica’s breath hitched as she stared at the devastation on the television. The world she knew—one filled with book tours, coffee, and casual banter with strangers—disintegrated

Before her eyes.

A final message appeared on the television, jarring her back to the present.

“This is not a drill. Seek shelter immediately.”

Someone began crying, and several others shouted, demanding assistance—Monica wasn’t sure who could help them now. As their situation sank in, she rose, and in a daze, walked to the large window overlooking the tarmac. Several planes sat grounded. Their massive frames remained motionless and empty on the silent runway. In the distance, an enormous boom shook the floor of the airport, and the lights flickered. Ward moved beside her, and they watched mutely as huge, unidentified flying objects filled the air in droves. This time, she reached for Ward’s hand, gripping it. Another bomb landed nearby, shaking the ground again. 

She stared straight ahead. This was not an emergency. It was the end.  

The ground trembled beneath them, and the sky above darkened, turning it unnaturally black. A strange sense of peace washed over Monica, and Ward squeezed her hand as an explosion blew the runway apart, silencing the world around them.