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in understanding that we cannot make contact?"
    "That's right. Our efforts to contact the voice have been unsuccessful. We seem to be at their mercy for contact."
    "Why have we not yet explored the vortex?"
    "As we speak, pilots are preparing to visit the tear."
    The room began to grumble. Milan spoke up. "Forgive me, sir, but isn't that incredibly dangerous? If this is, in fact, a traversable wormhole, we don't have ships capable of entering it. That's a suicide mission to say the very least."
    "We don't intend to enter it. We simply want to get a closer look."
    Another scientist spoke up. "That's just the thing, General. This isn't an 'object', per se. It's not something tangible. It is literally nothing. You'll be trying to get a closer view of..."
    Suddenly, the hum in the air became almost unbearable. The Earth began to shake, and screams could be heard both inside and outside the building. It lasted for less than thirty seconds, but it felt like an eternity. When it subsided, it was utter chaos. Shots could be heard outside; more screaming. Everyone at the table followed the General outside to the front porch of the house.
    In the sky, what appeared to be a bright, yellow cloud was emerging from the black tear. Very slowly it began making its way across the sky. A soldier came up to the general from inside the house.
    "Sir, Mr. Barry has contact."
    The shouting outside began to silence as Graham's voice could be heard over the loudspeakers as it had been before. "Will you please explain to us what is happening? What is this yellow cloud?"
    "Soon, we will be visible to you. Your world must first be cleansed. Do not be afraid."
    "But what do you mean 'cleansed'?"
    "An elemental rain will fall. Bathe all biological life in this rain."
    "Everything? Animals, plants... people?"
    "All that wishes to progress forward."
    "What will become of anything that doesn't get washed in this rain?"
    "These things will not advance."
    "You mean these things will die?"
    "There is no death as you believe it, but these things will not coexist."
    "When will this rain fall?"
    "Soon."
    The transmission concluded, and silence fell over the planet. Within hours, the world would be plunged into war.

CHAPTER TWO
     
    The Rock radio station in Tuscumbia that the world was listening to was owned and operated by Mike Gregory. It coexisted alongside two sister stations, a Top 40 formatted station and an AM talk radio station that aired continuous, right wing national programming and news. Mike had inherited the properties from his father, the founder of the stations. All three frequencies had been long-standing members of the North Alabama community and were generally successful. It was a rarity in American radio, however. Privately owned stations hardly existed outside of small-town America and those that did were barely able to hang on due to the exceptional operating costs.
    Mike was an accomplished salesman, though, and an engaging personality. He was well liked in the community, and when the offers came in from the radio conglomerates to purchase the stations during the radio boom of the 90s, Mike refused to sell. As a financial decision, he sometimes regretted this; but as a matter of integrity, he wore it as a badge of honor. Most stations that had been swallowed up by corporate America during the boom were shadows of their former selves. Mike's stations still functioned as they always had, since his father first flipped the switch on the first one in the early 1950s. He was proud of this.
    Mike paid better than most small town operators; that is to say that his employees were slightly above the poverty line. Radio DJs were not unlike musicians, writers and other artists. They were willing to accept a small salary in exchange for the creative freedom Mike allowed them on the air. As Wall Street had taken over most U.S. radio stations, creativity had been exchanged for profits. This led to voice tracking stations with generic talent, homogenized