by M. Lorrox
“To make matters worse in DC, cell service has been disrupted. Here on the ground, we don’t know if the problem is due to system failures of some kind, or if the towers are overwhelmed by a city of ten million trying to place calls and send messages. Earlier, while at the Pentagon, military officials confirmed that they were picking up EM interference on their bands as well, but they could not comment further.”
A server pauses to watch, forcing the beers on his tray to wait.
“I know that the military has switched to microwave relay communications—which is the same technology that we are using right now to broadcast from on location—and I know that teams have been dispatched to investigate the signal disruption. Before leaving the Pentagon, I wasn’t given an official statement, but one soldier who requested anonymity told me that, quote, progress is being made on the issue, and normal communication should return soon. End quote.”
The server bites his lip. Trish, you better be safe. You didn’t have classes today; I hope you stayed in. He shakes the thought of his friend out of his mind, and he decides he should deliver the beers.
“If you have loved ones in the DC area and are having trouble contacting them, note that at this time, you probably cannot reach them. But, there are things you can do. Stations broadcasting this feed, please put up CG’s with information on how people can contribute food, clothing, or donate money to aid in what will be an absolutely massive humanitarian recovery effort. Viewers, look for that information on your screen a little later. Your contributions could help those affected by this terrible tragedy. Your assistance can save lives; it can make a difference.
“Again, the military is working on investigating the communications issues in the area, please try and be patient. Your loved ones inside the quarantine are in my, and the entire nation’s, prayers.”
Major Stephanie Dubois jumps out of the Black Hawk helicopter onto the roof of a parking garage ahead of her two assistants. She wears a patrol cap over her short-cropped, dirty blonde hair. It’s here...somewhere. She turns to see the helicopter lift off. She squeezes the flares in her pocket. One red to call for air artillery, one green to call for pickup.
She waits until the helicopter is far enough away that she can speak without shouting. “Alright, listen up. This device isn’t going to be as easy to find as the last one, but it’s one of the bigger monsters pushing out the low frequency interference. That means it’s got to have a big antenna and a lot more than battery power. It could be AC, but if it’s here on this parking deck, I bet it’s in a running vehicle.”
Her new assistant, Second Lieutenant Owen Metcalf, lifts his handheld scanner. The device reflects as a pair of dark spots in his pale-blue eyes. “Not sure why we brought these—there’s so much overlapping interference in the area we can’t get a triangulation.”
Stephanie sniffs. “We brought them in case we need them, newbie, now split up down the rows and watch for Z. Keep an eye and an ear out for anything running or anything with a pigtail. Shout if you find something. If not, we’ll move down a level and start again. I’ll take the row farthest to the east. Got it? Move out.”
As she jogs away from the group, Owen leans over to First Lieutenant Sam Burnham, a thin and short man who has been on Stephanie’s team for a few months. “What’s she mean by pigtail?”
“That’s electronics talk for a power line. You take the next row, I’ll take the third one.” They jog off toward their rows—three of eight that are there on the roof.
Stephanie finishes her row and has found nothing. She walks down a side aisle toward the rest of the rows and finds Owen at the end of his. “Nothing?”
He shakes his head. “Plenty more to go.” He jogs in line with Stephanie, and they both expect to see Sam meet them at the end of the next row, but they don’t. They look down the row he took.
It’s empty.
Owen shakes his head. “Maybe he already finished.”
They jog to the next row, and it’s also empty.
Stephanie draws her sidearm. “Come on, and stay in the aisle. I’ll go down the row. Keep your eyes open.”
They jog back down the aisle, and Stephanie jogs down the third row. “Sam? Where are you?”
“Over here!”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, Major! You better come take a look at this.”
Stephanie holsters her gun and waves Owen to join her in the row. They jog down together until they find Sam. His feet barely stick out from underneath an old, beat-up van, parked beside a light post. He hears their steps. “Notice anything funny about this van? Also, I wouldn’t touch it if I were you.”
Stephanie and Owen pause. Owen glances at the tail-pipe. “It’s not running.” He bends down and checks the ground for wires, but he doesn’t see any. “What’s the deal, Sam? I don’t see anything.”
Stephanie smiles. “Nice work, Sam. I think you found it.” When Owen looks at her with a furrowed brow, she moves in line with the back window and looks across it. “It’s vibrating; you can see it shake. Also, these windows seem to be painted black on the inside.”
Owen reaches to touch the van, then he remembers the warning. He looks alongside the vehicle, from back to front. Yup, somethings moving in there. He walks over to the light post and glances around it for a junction box where the van might have tapped into a power line. “We’ve got an antenna here, suspended from the front corner of the van to the post. It looks like it extends up pretty high.”
Stephanie bends under the van. “Sam, what have you got down there?”
“I saw the blacked-out windows, then that it was vibrating. With all the things blowing up the last six hours, I figured I should check for a bomb on the undercarriage. There is something electronic here, but I’m not sure if it’s a bomb or some sort of control panel.”
Owen walks to the back and joins the Major. “If this is a Marx generator like the last units we found, then there’s no need for any moving parts. Unless it’s running off of an electric generator, instead of batteries.” He rushes back to the front of the van and smells. “There’s exhaust up here! It must be piped out from the cab... And yeah, if you listen real close, you can hear it running. Must be well insulated.”
“Excellent work, both of you. Sam, why’d you say not to touch it? Think there’s a sensor or something that’ll make it blow?”
“Nope.” He tosses an object down alongside his body and out past his feet. “When I got down here, I found this. I think it’s a lineman’s glove.”
She picks it up. Sure enough, it’s an insulated glove for working with high voltage. “Alright, Sam, get yourself out of there. Be careful.”
“This is a real piece of work.” He inches his way back out, careful not to touch the undercarriage. “I’ve never thought of boobytrapping a vehicle like this, but it makes sense—a person is more grounded than a car is on tires, and if there’s a big Marx generator in there with a shitload of capacitors—”
Stephanie pulls out the flares. “One touch, and you could fry. I hope we catch this SOB. Whoever it is, they’re good.”
Owen, who always danced along the line of danger and death, slowly extends his hand to touch the van. Wait, I should probably jump and only touch it while I’m in midair, just in case.
He takes a deep breath and glances out the corner of his eye to the Major.
She’s scowling at him. “Do it, and you’re off my team.”
He pulls his hand back. “It’s like the dark side: it was sucking me in. Thanks for pulling me back… Anyway, now what?”
Sam is out from under the van and looks to Stephanie for her answer. She holds up the red flare. “We mark the van and blow this fucker up. We don’t have time to disable it.” She tosses the flare to Owen. “Do the honors, padawan.”
He smiles. “Do this, I will.” He checks to see if there’s a breeze, and there is, but it’s not too strong. He moves to the side upwind of the van and ignites the flare. He sets it on the ground near the
van’s tire, then he runs to catch up with Stephanie and Sam.
They take cover behind an oversized pickup truck far from the flare’s red smoke. They wonder while they wait whether the helicopter will rain bullets down from its M-134 Minigun or if it will really light the van up with a Hellfire missile.
After a minute of waiting, the Black Hawk is back, and they have their answer. It paints the van with a laser and launches a single Hellfire missile. The missile is over five feet long, and although it can reach speeds of Mach 1.3, it doesn’t have time to fully accelerate as it makes the short trip to the van. The van, and the five vehicles parked next to it, are replaced by gigantic explosion and fireball. The entire roof of the parking deck shakes, and the soldiers taking cover beside the truck are all knocked onto their asses while they hope the building doesn’t collapse beneath them.
It doesn’t, and after a second of watching the blaze, Owen shakes his head. “That’s so rad.”
Stephanie smiles. “I bet that scanner you didn’t want to bring will now show a nice and rad zone without the low band interference. Come on, the next one will be easier. Let’s get moving.”
Eddy and Enrique first celebrate when they see that the ring was stolen along with the faked documents, but then they move on to speculate how pissed-off Lorenzo will be when he finds out that he’s been had.
Then they hear someone walking through the hallway talking about the news broadcast.
Within moments, all the rooms with occupants along the hall have decided to change the channel on their very loud televisions to find the report.
When Eddy finds the channel, there’s a woman with her short hair being blown into her face. She combs her hair flat to her head with her hand. She keeps her hand, and her hair, there while she speaks to the camera. “If we reported that a storm was coming yesterday, we’d kick ourselves at the irony of the unpredictable, and unprecedented storm that was released upon Washington DC today. STORM, isn’t quite the word that many here in witness would use.
“The wind has picked up and has changed direction, and I can tell you that there is smoke in the air. If only this wind corresponded to a changing of the tide here in DC, but I fear it only tells of more destruction—of the ongoing trauma our nation’s capital is facing.
“And through all of this chaos, the hundreds of thousands of people that live and work in the quarantined area behind me may have little hope of any relief soon. For them, the nightmare we can only imagine continues right in front of their eyes.”
As portions of the Smithsonian Institution Building burn and smolder, the refugees in the South Tower face another reality: no one may be coming for them.
The sounds of Korina fighting below have died, and it is a collective thought—and fear—that she too has perished.
Jambavan and Lance have taken up guard near the only entrance to the office, and Skip walks up to them with the last two Molotov cocktails. “How long do you think each of these burns?”
Jambavan and Lance both shrug, but Katlyn overhears Skip, and she leaves her conversation to join them. “Hey, they burn a while, but if the fire you set up above isn’t out already, it’ll be out soon.”
Skip can’t help but get lost in her eyes, and he feels a pang of sadness when confronted with her frowning face. He sighs. “Well, I think I should light these then. We need to be seen. It’s getting dark now, and I’m afraid to think about staying here overnight.”
Katlyn wraps an arm around him.
Jambavan bites his lip. “Do you think you should use both? Maybe we should keep one.”
Skip nods. “I thought about that. Now that... Now that zombies may be attacking this door any minute, we may not have another chance to get up to that top tower. We could save one for defense later, but, uh, we’d be right on top of the flames if we were to use it here. I don’t think that’s the answer.”
Lance puts his hand on the door’s handle. “Just say the word, man.”
Skip looks at Katlyn, and she kisses him. I guess that’s as clear a message as I need. “Okay, will you guys clear the stairwell and the room upstairs? Just in case? Then come down, and I’ll go up.”
Jambavan draws his push dagger with his one good hand. “I’ll guard the door—no zombie will pass. Lance, you clear the upstairs? Okay. Ready? Go.”
Lance rips the door open and blasts up the stairs. The attic above the office is empty. Okay, good. As he comes back down, he takes a breath in the stairwell, and he smells smoke. I guess that’s from Korina’s fires. He passes the doorway that Jambavan guards, standing just below in the stairwell, then he turns back to the injured squire. “Nobody up there. I’ll hold here just in case.”
Skip heads upstairs. It’s dark, and he holds his breath as he pulls the string to click on the lightbulb. Whew. He glances toward the opening to the small tower—where the zombie got the drop on Jambavan earlier. It’s empty, and Skip relaxes. He climbs up and opens the hatch to the top of the small tower. He repeats what he did before, but something catches his eye—there’s smoke coming from the other side of the castle. That can’t be a good thing. There’s no way Korina’s fire is putting smoke out there...
He focuses on his task, pulls the wicks, smashes the Molotovs, lights the wicks, and drops himself down into the tower as he tosses the wicks into the thickened fuel. The signal fire is renewed, for now.
Before he makes his way downstairs, he pauses in the attic. Do I tell them about the smoke? Of course I do, but...what does it even mean? What will it mean for us? His mind flashes to Monica, his late wife. He sees her face and the silver chain she always wore around her neck. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the same silver chain, tied into a bundle with a white ribbon.
As he runs his fingers over the metal links that have lived in his pocket for the last five years, he sighs. He shakes his head and returns the chain to his pocket. I have to move on. I have to. His thoughts return to his current predicament; he’s trapped by zombies with almost fifty other people in the tower of a burning building. What do we do now?
He takes a deep breath and imagines June’s face. He imagines that she tells him, “We’ll figure it out.” He nods while staring into the dark corner of the attic. Yeah. We’ll figure it out. I’m not alone.
Skip walks downstairs to the office with the others. Lance hears him, and he’s about to step back up into the room when -CRASH!-
A zombie—on fire from head to toe—blasts through the last of whatever barricade Korina left behind. Lance makes his hands into fists. I should have grabbed that crowbar. He launches himself at the zombie. He easily overpowers it, but his strikes aren’t aimed well, and it takes him longer to deal with the zombie than it would take a knight. After he kills the zombie, his clothes smoke as they start to burn. He slaps the fire out when more zombies—also engulfed in flame—come at him. Ah, shit! He scoots upstairs in a flash and slams the door behind him. “We can’t stay here. Zombies, and fire, are coming.”
Skip looks at Katlyn. “We’ll figure it out. Get everyone ready to move.”
She nods. “Okay, but to where?”
He looks away and thinks of June again. He imagines her saying the last words Korina said to him. Don’t you dare give up. Get everyone to safety, no matter what it takes.
Skip looks back into Katlyn’s eyes. They quiver a little, and for a moment, his own strength and will falters. No! This is not the end... You cannot give up!
Everywhere dark. Cold. Empty.
Quiet.
Then, a voice calls out. “No! This is not the end… You cannot give up!”
In the dark, empty, and quiet hospital room, June’s heart beats.
June opens her eyes but cannot see. A black void engulfs her until light slowly creeps in like fog, and the image of her surroundings forms before her.
She sits upright and cringes at the searing pain from her abdomen. She gasps. The cold air fills her lungs, and energy swirls inside her. Where am I? Where are they? They killed Beatrice!
June’s body quivers, and she punches the bed at her sides. The bones in her right forearm are broken and unhealed, and white lightning bolts of pain cut through her. She drops her head.
What’s wrong with my arm? She brings her other hand over to it, and she sees the wounds on them where Michael Turner and Dr. Lars Melgaard extracted her bone marrow. She runs her fingers over one wound, then over the next, then the next in a spiral that leads up her arm past where she can see, around to her shoulder blades. My hair. Where’s my hair?
She swings her legs off the bed—pain still sears from her broken arm, but it doesn’t faze her. She looks down at her legs sticking out of her hospital gown. Those same markings... She plops her feet down to the ice-cold tile floor and finds the bathroom.
She flicks the lights on and stares into the mirror, and then she screams. Her yell scatters people walking through the halls, and outside, the trees shift in the wind.
It’s not long until someone rushes into her room. She locks the bathroom door and howls through it at them, “LEAVE ME ALONE!”
June hears the visitor’s feet twist on the tiles. It’s a woman.
“I’ll get the doctor!” Then, the door to the hallway shuts.
June studies her image in the mirror. Her head is shaved. Her odd green-and-silver eyes scan from one round wound to the next across her scalp. She lowers her head and closes her eyes. Her hands trace the holes in her head. There’s a ring of three at the top. Then a ring of eight. Then more. She opens her eyes and runs her hands down the back of her skull.
She remembers she felt the holes on her shoulder, and with one hand she grabs her gown and tears it off. Her heart skips a dozen beats as she freezes, looking down at her body—at the wounds that travel down her sternum and down both arms.
Her eyes find her belly and the large incision that cuts across her. Staples hold the skin shut. She runs one finger along the length of the wound, from one side to the other. Then she feels the holes on her hips. Then more down her legs.