The bombs had fallen and the planes gone, but the fires they left behind still stretched toward the moon like brilliant orange streamers. The air raid sirens were silent. Instead there were the sounds of ambulances and fire trucks, shouting rescue workers and scraping stone, and a few cries of the injured. London huddled underground. Just another night.
Wilbur Birch stood near what had been the doorway of what had been St. Aubrey's church. The pews were gone; the left apse folded into the ground like a tablecloth slipping over the corner of its table. Bits of stone wall were still dripping into the crater. There had been a church on this site for nearly one thousand years. To the bombs, nothing was sacred.
A slap on the arm roused him. "Nobody's here, mate," said the man who had slapped him: a rough dock worker named Jones. "Houses just over yonder though. No time to waste."
Wilbur watched the dust settle, coating what was left of the woodwork in a film that made it look like it had been abandoned for years.
Better get over there, he thought. He grabbed his case and headed off across the rubble. If Wilbur Birch couldn't sell a Kirby Vacuum Cleaner today, he wasn't worthy of the title Sales Blitz Commander.
Opening: 150.....Continuation: Anon.