Saturday August 8, 2026 [8/8 +0]
Chicago, United States of America
Matthew McBride sped through the streets of Chicago rushing to get to his office. The adrenaline in his body was fighting to counteract the ripping hangover from the previous night.
Millions have fallen unconscious. All over the world.
He glanced at his cell phone, which displayed a single message from Perry Easton:
Matthew dreaded the upcoming face-to-face with his boss. He had showed up to work drunk, hungover, or a combination of both (what he called a ‘drunkover’) several times. Perry had always shown his displeasure at Matthew’s vices. The last time he showed up to work hungover Perry had threatened to have security drag him out of the building. Matthew wondered if the fact that it was Saturday would get him off the hook this time.
He pulled in front of the security gate to the parking lot of “The Daily Post and Register”. He swiped his card and found a spot. Matthew pounded back another three aspirins and shoved two sticks of cinnamon gum into his mouth. With a vigorous shake of his head, he exited his car and headed inside the building.
Perry Easton was holding court in the middle of the open concept cubicle farm, where there were about a dozen other staff gathered about. He was rapidly throwing out orders in his faded Scottish accent.
“OK, so we know that this thing seems to have hit the prisons hard. Yvonne, check out Metro Corrections Center and get as much info on every prisoner, conscious or not, that the admin staff there have on file. Yuri, you’re the science guy. I don’t know… mine the Internet for any plausible scientific theories out there as to why millions of people are getting knocked out cold. Victoria, use your connections at the White House to see if there is any whiff of this being a bio-terror attack—I know what you’re going to say, it’s happened all over the world nearly simultaneously, there is no delivery system that can hit that fast. Just check on the terror angle… Jesus Matt, you look like total shit.”
Everyone looked over at Matthew. He stopped mid-gum-chew and gave himself a once over. He did look like shit. Victoria Sparks, the twenty-seven year old firecracker political analyst who was sitting next to him, visibly squirmed away from him.
Damn it. Should have taken a shower before getting here.
“Hi Boss. Didn’t think I was coming in on a Saturday.”
“This is the news, Matt. We’re on call right along with police, fire, and ambulance.”
“Sorry Boss. What’s on tap for me?”
Perry took a deep breath, seeming to hold in something impolitic that he dearly wanted to say. Instead, he said, “Matt, you’ve got deep connections with the American ground forces over in Iraq and Syria right now, as well as other Iraqi insurgent sources that you’ve always kept as confidential informants. Call them up, find out what’s going on over there.”
“Boss, what is going on over there?” Matthew asked. “The Iraqi Insurgency has been going on for almost three years now. Is that really the most important thing we should be chasing down right now?”
Perry stared at him. “You haven’t heard? The battle at Raqqa—there’s been a ceasefire. It looks like this phenomenon has hit them as well. We need to know what people on the ground know, and fast.”
