Amsterdam, Ten years earlier
Pascal Hugo had been on his way home when the disaster struck. It wasn't a flash or a bang, nor was it a silent shade with a scythe that put the population down like wheat on a field. The only thing he noted that it was an extraordinarily hot day for being mid October. Almost like it still was summer, still August. All right, the Indian summers had gotten warmer and more frequent during the last 30 years due to the global warming. But not like this, not a sweltering 35 degrees in October, not a sun that seemed to burn even through his clothes and sting his even through his sun glasses.
But he kept his jacket on in spite of the heat as he hurried down towards the subway station, because the alternative had been worse, as he had a large stain of red wine over his shirt. The one who had created this stain was, Catherine, his soon-to-be ex-wife who accused him of spending too little time with her (true) and betraying him (false, if you didn't count his w