Chapter 1: Desolation

Cody Redford stared blankly at the remnants of his house, scarred by battle wounds, and defaced with pockmarks. Tears welled up as he took in the unbending gravity of the wretched sight; the fragile impermanence of life brought into sharp focus under a brooding sky with distant thunder echoing over a barren landscape.

Akin to sleepwalking into cinematic fancy, the world had shrunk into the void, bereft of sane, mortal cognition, the realisation creeping into him as if through osmosis. A once great nation, now devoid of tangible credit, left a sentiment of ambiguity and introspection nestled on his shoulder.

Cursing the structural failure brought on by self-aggrandising, Teflon skinned, anointed demigods, he knew he’d done nothing to stop them abusing the high church of humanity. Instituting feral barbarism and spouting jaw breaking edicts, they had used the ballot box as their duped factotum, their citizens brainwashed and set in a line of their choosing, their worship of the hydrogen bomb without any forbearance of its worldwide catastrophic effect. Savagely insulting and delivered in such an ignoble way, the resultant wild party tore through flesh and bone, bereft of all moral restraint.

Like running alongside a driverless express train, the cabal of devils could not stop the juggernaut they had started. All came crashing down, the cradle of civilisation destroyed, three thousand years of human upward mobility thrown onto the funeral pyre, bi-products of narrow and parochial views, higher ideals sacrificed on the altar of dark spiritualism. Comparable to blind bombardiers indiscriminately dropping bombs on the innocent, in the shadow of the event hinterland, it equated to fiendishness at its finest.

Monumental and without precedence, the epic outcome left horizons lost forever, and took few prisoners. In the aftermath, there’d be no phoenix rising rejuvenescent from its immolating ashes, no chance of reportage, only galvanised resolve to commune with yesteryear’s ghosts and angels of repose.

Blacker than black, shorn and bleached of all cellulose and fibre, with every spore and amoeba obliterated and consigned to desolation, the juxtaposition represented a far cry from the fun-filled, good times Redford once knew.

Chapter 2: Overture and Beginners

Set in 1985

“Here’s something to stimulate your interest,” Cody said, prodding his wife Carolyn. “There’s a White House report in the Observer.”

“Really.” She lowered the Sunday Telegraph from the reading position, giving him her attention. “What’s it about?”

“Reagan’s tabled a meeting with Gorbachev. Apparently, a new series of SALT talks are being considered.”

“God willing and the creek don’t rise.” When it came to anything involving initiative from President Reagan, Carolyn had a humorous, if not cynical thought set.

Letting out a low restrained laugh in response, Cody questioned, “Surely, he’s not that bad?”

“Well, on the first day of his presidency, reputedly, he asked his chief of staff if he could take a gander at the White House war room. The aid told him no such room existed. Reagan replied, ‘Yes it does. I’ve seen it in the movie, Dr. Strangelove.’” She smirked. “Case proven, I submit.”

Based on Reagan’s penchant for simple-minded gaffes, her scathing report was undeniably true. Back home in Dayton, Ohio, Carolyn’s family had been republicans for at least four generations. Fine as a B-movie actor and confidant to Sinatra’s rat pack, they pigeonholed Ronnie as inappropriate for the exalted high office of chief executive of state, the ex-Hollywood star hardly fitting the wisdom and ability standing of republican predecessors such as Theodore Roosevelt and Eisenhower.

Deciding to goad her a bit more, he quipped, “don’t sugar-coat it. Tell me what you really think. Let’s have some intellectual brio and a didactic approach applied to the subject.”

“Very funny,” she fired off, flexing her reading matter to eye level. “You should apply to go onto one of those ridiculous television talent, or should it be no-talent shows under the guise of a satirical comic.”

Breaking into a bountiful smile, he complimented, “Life would be lacklustre, if not for your down home, Middle-America humour.”

She emerged from around her newspaper, her natural blonde tresses bouncing about her shoulders as she took him in. “Don’t be sarcastic to your elders and betters, darling,” she playfully demanded, emphasising the remark by widening her large, almond shaped, hazel-blue eyes masked behind spectacles perched midway down her nose.

Whenever Cody challenged her, Carolyn reminded him he was ten months her junior. As such, the expected requirement from him was to be respectful, though they played the ruse as a teasing game. Fleshed out with good nature and intimacy, it never lapsed into crass points scoring or indented their binding relationship. Her hawkish reading glasses magnified the thrill, making her simultaneously appear both clever and seductive.

“Well, let’s have it,” she jabbed. “What’s Ronnie up to now?”

“Evidently, the White House has received a communiqué from the Kremlin. It, er…let me see—” He shuffled the newspaper to the relevant section. “Oh yes, it suggests the two heads of state will have a summit meeting, and I quote, ‘…at the Hofoi House in Reykjavik’.”

“Is that all?” she queried, feminine guile punctuating the dismissive remark.

Collapsing the Observer, Cody glared at her. “Give me a moment, and I’ll let you have the full SP.”

She cast an alluring come to me look at him whilst stretching comfortably on the couch. Taking in her change of posture, he instinctively knew what was on her mind. When they were alone, Carolyn always erred towards the sexually stimulating side of her nature, the creature’s default position. When she put on an air of superiority sharpened by the domineering spectacles she wore—and only over the top of them when she was in her current mood—it always elevated Cody’s pleasure, giving him a deep, warm glow in the loins.

“I’m waiting, darling,” she declared.

He couldn’t help but smile. “So is Christmas. Do you good to wait sometimes, my girl.”

Contentedly purring like a satisfied cat, she crossed her legs. Her legs, his weak point, his oh so, delightful Achilles heel. Those endless, nylon-clad, high-heeled legs had been drowning him in passion and pleasure ever since they met. She knew exactly how to turn him on. God had made her unassailable in that domain. She’d done it many times, Cody, her willing slave, her co-partner in sexual abandon.

Flashing a quick-witted smile at him, she posed, “Do you want to go upstairs, or are you up to something more experimental?”

“Carolyn!” he exclaimed before falling silent. Marvelling at the heaven before him, he conjectured, why did she choose me, an up and coming sales manager and second-rate poet, over the myriads of rich hunks worshipping her every movement? The supposition evaporated as application resumed. “I’m trying to tell you something and—”

“Yes,” she interrupted, extending her flirty sport.

Frowning, he protested, “It’s very difficult to stay on the ball, when you’re seducing me.” Hesitating, he kept his options open. “Not that I don’t want you to seduce me,” he admitted, unable to prevent himself sliding into her web.

Sniggering with expectation, she aimed a satisfied smile at him.

Sighing with pleasure, he rolled his eyes around her form, figuring it’d only be a matter of time before he succumbed to her temptress trap. Gently hitting his cheek, he recovered concentration. “Later, darling,” he chimed. “Later.”

She knew she had him but let him keep control, at least until he got to the kernel of the news.

“First,” he implored, “let me finish what’s occurring in Reykjavik.”

Giggling, she uncrossed her man-devouring legs. “You have my undivided attention. I’m all yours.” An insincere feint, she continued the entrancing allure, her sulk heading for unconditional authority over him.

“Stop it,” he petitioned in as potent a manner as he could muster, knowing it was useless to resist. He enjoyed being putty in her hands far too much to let a piece of topical news deflect the sexual innuendo for much longer.

Seeing him wavering, she increased the magnetism, her waves of womanly enticement passing through his defences, unabated.

Holding on, he pressed his lips together in an act of defiance. “Right,” he warbled, retaking moderation but unable to resist glimpsing at her once more. Quivering his head, he tried for poise, an impossible task, more a gesture indicating he’d evade seduction, at least for a few more minutes.

Snapping up the Observer, he finally answered her query. “‘US president Ronald Reagan and Soviet Union premier Mikhail Gorbachev will hold a summit meeting at the famous house of Hofoi in Reykjavik October 1986. The talks will build on the success of the SALT agreements.”’ He peeped up. She seemed to be listening. “It goes on to say… ‘Reagan will propose banning all ballistic missiles, and Gorbachev will seek to eliminate Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces in Europe, as distinct from ICBMs. The Soviets will also propound eliminating 50% of all strategic arms, including ICBMs, and probably will agree not to ask for British and French weapons to be included in the count.”’

Inquisitive for her reaction, he peeked up from the report, his gaze falling on her face as she cogitated.

“And I should be pleased about this for what reason?” she solicited.

Tutting disapprovingly at her apparent nonchalance, Cody bug-eyed her sternly. “Carolyn, this is an important issue. Be serious for once.”

Lingering in her canny lair, she quizzed, “Are you admonishing me, my dear?” her voice rich with rebuke.

“No, just trying for an opinion from the spokesperson of one of the superpowers.”

Yawning and stretching, she aligned her perfect body, making her full breasts jut upwards before giving him a disparaging I’ll deal with you later look.

“You’ve always known I’m not a serious person when it comes to politics,” she cued. “Sure, I vote Republican, but it’s without conviction.”

Provoking scant praise, he acknowledged. “You’re a true patriot, my dear. Shall I start singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?”

“Now who’s not being serious?” she retaliated. “Shut up or I will bring out the correction spoon.” Pausing, she twigged. “Oh…I hadn’t realised this was a lead in to fun and games. What exactly do you have in mind?”

Her husband’s attempt at the mildly cynical had backfired. He realised Carolyn interpreted it to be a come on.

Opening his hands in a neutralising stance to diffuse the supposed insinuation, he beseeched, “I’m sorry, Carolyn, I couldn’t resist. Please go on.”

Ever the huntress, ready to make him do her bidding, she responded with a rueful yet encouraging smile. “We’re talking about a global paradox,” she insisted. “Something not fulfilled at the ballot box. That is correct, isn’t it?”

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, a disgraced schoolboy expecting the cane guise consuming him.

Assuming a rare somber mantle, she effortlessly segued out of man-baiting mode. “We’re all in the hands of those governing us,” she advanced. “Even if everyone expressed a desire to rid the world of nuclear weapons, it’s exceedingly farfetched to see our rulers taking a blind bit of notice.” He nodded in full agreement. “You see, having the bomb not only results in parity with the presumed enemy. For governments, it’s also a way of mastering its nationals.”

“What in particular do you mean?”

“It suits both the West and the communist states to proliferate nuclear weapons and thereby perpetuate an agreeable tension between the superpowers.”

“Why?”

“Because it diverts public awareness from other topics never assessed, or worse, swept under the carpet.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, the economy, unemployment, social components,” she began to enumerate, “the price of beans, how to resolve world overpopulation, anything calling for transformation or compromise.” She sat forward to emphasise the corollary. “The potential threat of global thermonuclear war is merely used to veer our attention from the more everyday contentions buffeting our lives.”

“So…huh.” Grimacing, not quite attuned to her line of understanding, he probed, “What exactly are you saying?”

“What I’m saying is, for Uncle Sam, Maggie, and the communist states, it’s virtually a godsend. Something they superficially enrich to get the populace involved and to stop them ruminating about more immediate appraisals impinging on daily life government should be addressing.” She cocked her head to one side, as if signifying the absoluteness of her assertion. “That’s what I’m saying.”

Content with her analysis, she relaxed. Fascinated by her image-breaking assessment, Cody felt dumbfounded but detected she awaited his riposte tout suite.

“My god,” he blathered, his uninformed schoolboy feeling intensifying. “That was impressive.”

“Why thank you, kind sir,” she accepted. Renewing playful mode, she brought her chin close to her knees, staring at him expectantly.

Only a few months earlier, Cody had married a breath-taking siren, who apparently secretly possessed the drapery of an astute and gifted political analyst and lateral thinker. Where on Earth did that come from? he pondered. She sensed a question coming from him, but having trouble framing it, he remained silent.

“Don’t forget, my darling,” she incited, “I did politics as part of my business studies degree at Sinclair.”

“Me too, as part of my degree,” he countered, “but I’ve never come out with anything as insightful as that.” He raised his eyebrows. “And I’m meant to be the clever one in the kinship.”

She smiled. “Never underestimate a girl from Ohio.”

The smile turned into a grin of surreal wickedness. They started laughing. She got up, raised herself to her full statuesque height, moved ahead with a wiggle, and stood gazing down on him, her features drenched in yearning. Withdrawing the Observer from his grasp, she sat in his lap, crossed her irresistible legs, wrapped her arms around him, and smothered his welcoming mouth in a voluptuous kiss. Cody knew what was coming next, but he’d not struggle or resist.

“Aphrodite, don’t fail me now,” he begged.