“But Mr. President—”
“And just so the French president knows, we’re not so proud as to refuse all outside help. The International Red Cross has provided wonderful assistance to refugees from the DC-area quarantine. Next question.”
“Speaking of irresponsible statements, Mr. President, Al Qaeda has released a new videotape alleging that this crisis is, quote, ‘Allah’s punishment for American indiscretions with Israel.’ What’s your response to that?”
“Candice, I’ll give that quote exactly the amount of attention it deserves. Next question.”
Laughter.
“Al Robertson here, NBC Nightly News. Mr. President, yesterday the televangelist—”
“Although I will say one thing—excuse me, Al, I’ll come back to you. The international criticism is troubling not just for the effect it’s had here at home but upon our soldiers abroad. Morale is low, and our forces profess deep distraction over what’s happening at home. So I must say that this unrelenting tide of insults from foreign governments isn’t helping matters at all. It’s only reducing our mission effectiveness and thereby prolonging the time we’ll need to complete those missions.”
“But Mr. President, surely you’re aware criticism isn’t coming in just from international quarters. A class-action—”
“Yes, yes, I know. A class-action lawsuit’s been filed about our closing of the city’s borders. I got news for them, too: there was no indication beforehand that the immature primate creatures would take the opportunity to attack the traffic jams. None. So closing the borders wasn’t ‘negligent endangerment,’ as these people are claiming. You can quote me on that.”
“I’m sure we will, sir. But what about the calls for a victim-compensation fund? There are those who are saying you’re ignoring all suggestions that one be set up.”
“I’m ignoring nothing, sir. But talk of victim compensation is a bit premature, don’t you think? Besides, I think that’s more properly a Congressional matter. Next question. No, no, wait—before I go on, I want to address something about victim compensation. I want to remind the public that presently the only federally sanctioned forms of aid are certified charitable institutions like the Red Cross. There are a lot of scam artists out there who are circling Washington like vultures, setting up these supposed ‘disaster relief funds.’ They’re really nothing more than excuses to separate kind-hearted retirees from their pensions. I tell ya, I can’t think of anything more disgusting than that. We see these people come out of the woodwork every time there’s a natural disaster of this scope, eager to take advantage of people. A lot of these opportunists, unfortunately, are circulating in the so-called ‘tent cities’ springing up outside the DC border crossings. Some of these shysters are easy to spot—the UFO cultists selling their trinkets and souvenirs. They’re claiming the primate creatures are actually misunderstood aliens. But some of them are more clever, I’m sorry to say. They prey on the hopes and wallets of those just trying to find their missing loved ones, such as the family members stapling up missing-persons posters. My heart goes out to those victims, it really does. I’ve asked the relief law enforcement coming in—our fine friends from as far as Oregon and Washington state, particularly, the governors have been extremely supportive—I’ve asked these fine young men and women to go into these places and to really look out for those people who are suffering. Next question.”
“Mr. President—”
“Mr. President, can I—”
“Wait a minute, I gotta go back to Al Robertson there, ’cause I cut him off. And I know he’ll have a softball question for me. Isn’t that right, Al?”
“Thank you, Mr. President. Today, the New York Times reported that televangelist Pat Williams is alleging the federal government purposefully bioengineered the creatures. Citing unnamed sources, Williams says the government’s purpose was to manufacture a crisis to justify the use of emergency surgical abortions and thereby undermine the Shultz-Clawson pro-life legislation now in committee. What’s your response to that, sir?”
“Hey, I was right; it is a softball question. No, of course we didn’t create the animals. I think it’s obvious Reverend Williams is trying to boost sales on his book about genetic engineering. I imagine it must be traumatizing for him to have his thunder from being on Oprah drowned out by the situation in Washington. Well, I got news for the reverend. This ain’t about him. You do bring up a good subject, though—surgical abortions—and no, that’s not a softball question. There’s a lot of terrified young women out there who’ve been impregnated by these things but who were lucky enough to get themselves to hospitals. And I have this to say to them: we are doing everything in our power not only to protect you from any kidnapping raids but to ensure that when this pregnancy—it’s not even a pregnancy, to my mind, it’s like a sickness—when this thing runs its course in a week, it will not cost you your life. It’s entirely up to you and your doctor whether to surgically terminate your pregnancy, and the government will not impose its wishes on you. And if you are pregnant and are debating whether to seek government medical care, then I urge you to please come forward. You will not be harmed, and you will not be punished. You’re the victim here. We only want to help. . . .”
That did it, the talk about surgical abortion. The spell cast by the TV broke. Margaret jumped up from her cot and lurched out into one of the hallways where they were permitted to go. She felt suddenly angry, and she wasn’t sure why. Sure, the topic of abortion was part of it—about how much she hated them, how much they went against her sensibilities as a doctor of reproductive medicine.
But she also knew abortion was the next thing she’d intended to discuss with Daniella before the world went haywire up in that hospital room. That’s what really made her angry: that she knew she might never have that conversation. Her chance was stolen by some wet-behind-the-ears, sonofabitch soldier with a German-sounding name who’d lied to her so he could lock her up in this goddamned prison of a public shelter. She was even angry at Reverend Pat Williams, because if it wasn’t for him, she wouldn’t have been working last Friday to write a rebuttal article for the Washington Post against his book about genetic engineering, and maybe Daniella wouldn’t have gone out with that Eric Gensler boy and gotten raped. It would’ve been a mother-daughter night to stay home and eat popcorn and watch the director’s cut of Titanic.
Usually it felt good to cry. This time, it just made things worse.
✽ ✽ ✽
On Wednesday, Randall finished her tours of the condominiums in Falls Church and started on the single-family homes. She continued to have PFC Adams as a partner, although some other cops expressed worry about two women roaming the county by themselves. Given the nature of the threat, Randall agreed with them. Not that it had any effect on her assignment.
Signs of the bigfoot infestation continued to be obvious in terms of property damage and blood stains, but Randall and Adams saw only one UPA during their shift. They dutifully reported it before retreating. Meanwhile, accounts floated in of other skirmishes, but these were mostly isolated to chance encounters in parks. A dozen more nests were found in the sewer system. Some of the paralyzed, pregnant women found inside died during subsequent attempts at surgical abortions. The rest died when they gave birth, and the babies that came out of them were immediately shot in the head—or so Randall heard through the grapevine.
Hunting teams and helicopters equipped with infrared cameras scoured the city and suburbs, but the truth was that despite the animals’ presumably growing numbers, the feds could never engage them when they desired. You would think that with the redoubled manhunt—or creature-hunt—it should be fairly easy to track down several hundred rampaging primates in such a modernized and sophisticated setting. But the area’s development actually hindered instead of helped the search. There were simply too many buildings, too many wooded areas, and too many people getting in the way. One news commentator, a decorated war veteran, compared the task to finding guerillas i
n Vietnam and Iraq—except that these were real “gorillas.” (Yeah, har de har har, you son of a bitch, Randall thought when she heard this.) It was as if the UPAs were conserving their strength for coordinated raids like the ones on the hospitals and “smorgasbord alleys.”
The feds seemed content to wait as well. The region remained closed to visitors. A steady trickle of evacuees braved the streets to venture to border crossings and public shelters, and from there to freedom. Randall wished more of them would leave. Less people would remain in danger, and there would be fewer blips on the helicopters’ infrared cameras.
The rest of the nation continued to panic. The price of a one-month supply of birth control pills jumped from about sixty dollars to over three hundred. Pharmacies sold out of intrauterine devices, and a black market sprang up for RU-486—the so-called “morning after” pill—as frightened women stockpiled it in case they were ever raped. Constituents bombarded their congressmen’s offices with letters and phone calls, demanding news on missing loved ones in DC. And in the midst of all this, two asshole New York lawyers filed a trademark application with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office for an alcoholic beverage called the BIGFOOT (“It’ll lay you out”).
Because of the top-down command structure, Randall had no idea if anyone had searched the CalPark laboratory. When she returned to the station near midnight, she did some asking around and learned that Mr. Limp Moustache had been reassigned earlier that day—no other explanation given.
She went in search of the federal tactical commander running their station. She found him sitting behind the police chief’s desk, squinting at a pile of paperwork. She couldn’t imagine what had happened to the person who was supposed to sit there. This man wore a crewcut and tight green Army shirt, and he had biceps like two boa constrictors. Under other circumstances, she might have flirted with him.
“Yes?” he said without looking up.
Randall searched for a chair to sit in, but the commander had removed them, apparently preferring his visitors to stand at attention. Unperturbed, Randall crossed her hands behind her back. She repeated the story about her interview of Nick Schaefer. The jerk didn’t even glance at her, even when she told him about Schaefer’s supernatural escape onto the roof. She finished by stating the need to search the CalPark laboratory at Tyson’s Corner as it could shed light on the creatures’ origin.
Finally, the commander looked up at her. He frowned as if she were keeping him from more important matters. “Look, I appreciate your theory, but I’m already investigating a hundred other crackpot claims about the creatures.”
Randall gaped at him. She wished now she was sitting down, because she felt dizzy. “A ‘crackpot’ claim? Sir, I saw this man jump up onto the roof like he’d been cross-bred with one of those things. I mean, I’m a sworn police officer who’s telling you what I witnessed, and I wasn’t the only one. What more do you want?”
The commander shrugged an eyebrow. On his broad face, the gesture had the impact of shrugging an entire shoulder. “Okay, I’ll look into it. I assume you filed a report with more detail?”
“I’ll bring you a copy right away.”
“Very well.”
She had the report in front of him within five minutes. The commander glanced at it before dropping it onto a stack at the corner of his desk. Randall watched this with dismay, knowing it would never be read.
When he noticed Randall was still standing there, he said, “I’ll give you a decision tomorrow.”
“I was hoping we could get the warrant served tonight . . . sir.”
He returned to the other report he was reading. “Tomorrow. Until then, you’re dismissed.”
She wanted to slug the son of a bitch. She returned to her office area. She’d moved her cot there to get away from the main sleeping area. She lay down on it and flung an arm over her eyes.
This is going nowhere. I may have to break into that place after all.
No one else was in the work room, so she dimmed the lights and prepared to settle in for the night. Before she kicked off her shoes and went to bed, however, she sent an email to her mother to assure her that she was okay and would call as soon as possible. She also made some phone calls to determine if Margaret Connolly’s Isuzu had been among the hundreds of abandoned vehicles towed off the area’s highways. So far, it hadn’t turned up.
✽ ✽ ✽
Thursday came, and Margaret’s world changed again.
It started that morning with the whirring thumpthumpthump of a helicopter sounding like it was going to crash right through the damned ceiling. It was about a half hour after breakfast, when Margaret was scheming how she could finagle another mug of that sludgy tar the jarheads called coffee.
What she really wanted, more than the coffee, was the sympathetic ear of the military cook named Nora Kate. After each meal, Margaret had sidled back up to the serving line for a shot of coffee and had taken the opportunity to strike up a conversation—at first just chatting with the young woman to gain her confidence, and then dropping comments about Daniella. Last night, they progressed as far as Nora Kate expressing astonishment and concern about Daniella’s fate. Today, Margaret hoped to manipulate her into lobbying on her behalf. That seemed to be a more effective strategy than her usual, twice-daily attempts to get an audience with the commander, whoever the hell that was. She’d never even seen him.
As usual, the jarheads hadn’t said anything to anyone about evacuation plans. Over breakfast would’ve been a perfect time, but did they? No. The first indication she had of an evacuation came with the deafening whine of the helicopter touching down on the elementary school’s roof. The roof. She didn’t know until that moment that school roofs could withstand that kind of weight. The soldiers probably didn’t know either, goddamn them.
Some imperious fuck with bars on his collar walked into the gymnasium and clapped his hands for attention. “Okay, listen up!” The room grew quiet except for the drone of the TV, and then that was muted, too. “Listen up. I’m gonna need you to get in groups of ten, designate a group leader, and the group leader raise his hand—and only the group leader. You all got that?”
They did not get it. Jarhead With Bars had to repeat himself several times before the instruction was understood. Then it took another quarter hour before everyone complied and quieted enough for him to be able to make himself heard again. Margaret wanted to tell him to just give it up. These people weren’t military recruits.
But there was the commonsense way of doing things, and then there was the military way. Jarhead With Bars was content to fritter away time organizing his little platoons. He pointed at each of the leaders and told them to remember the group names he gave them—Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, all the way through India.
Margaret found herself in group Bravo. It included the young married couple from before, a Hispanic couple with three school-aged children, and a teenaged girl who regarded everything with wide, frightened eyes. The girl was there by herself and didn’t have anyone. Margaret considered trying to comfort her in some way—maybe she’d take her under her wing—but then she rejected that idea, angry with herself. She wasn’t in the market yet for a surrogate daughter.
A Seventies reject with an open collar, gold chains, and a bald spot appointed himself group leader. He looked pleased with his position as he told everyone where to sit.
All the while, the helicopter on the roof continued to spin its rotors. How much gas did those things have, anyway?
“All right, group Alpha, you’re first,” Jarhead With Bars said. “Come with me.”
Group Alpha stood up—in a decidedly non-organized way despite all the organizing, which gave Margaret a little chuckle—and accompanied JWB from the room. A few minutes later, the helicopter sounds grew louder and faster as it took off, then gradually became fainter.
Over the protests of her group leader, Margaret left them to saunter back into the cafeteria. Nora Kate was nowhere to be found. It seemed like all hope
of finding Daniella had vanished.
When she came back, her group leader was beside himself, face red and jewelry waggling on his graying chest. “Look, I’m responsible for keeping us together to make sure we’re ready to go when it’s our turn. I don’t appreciate you just walking off.”
Margaret folded her arms and sat down. “Kiss my ass.”
“Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Well if that’s how you feel, then—”
“Group Bravo, Group Bravo!” the head jarhead bawled across the gymnasium. “On your feet, and come with me.”
✽ ✽ ✽
The alarm clock program Randall had installed on her computer woke her up that morning. She resisted the urge to turn it off and go back to sleep. Although she had received her wish to be switched to a day shift, her body hadn’t adjusted yet, nor had it kicked whatever had been knocking her out during these past weeks and months. If anything, she felt worse: her breasts were tender, her sinuses were clogged, her eyes were so dry that it felt like someone had poured sand into them as she slept, and she was positive now she was PMSing. She ran a hand through her scalp and was surprised when her fingers came back webbed with hair that the action had pulled out.
I can’t deal with this.
Twenty minutes and a fresh change of clothes later, she peered over her coffee in the break room to realize people were moving around more frantically than usual. PFC Adams, who had also spent the night at the station, bustled in already wearing her gear. The bulletproof vest under her uniform shirt made her look like a body builder. Randall swallowed the last of her rock-hard glazed doughnut and asked what was going on.
“Randall! There you are. I’ve been looking for you. The bigfoots came out of their holes this morning. They attacked two public shelters in Fairfax and Centreville.”
Blood Born Page 29