“Anything else from Deseret, formerly Utah?”
“No, George. They’re very polite, but vague—won’t commit to anything.”
Sandra Paul sighed. “I can’t really blame them. Their Nation State had few harvester ark visits and other incursions. The Mormons were always prepared for some kind of apocalyptic disaster, so they had a lot of stored supplies to fall back on. By keeping to themselves, using their own resources for their people, they had much fewer losses.”
George grunted. “It would have been nice if they had shared.”
“Why would they? Everything fell apart. There was no central authority—or organization. How would they know their limited aid would reach the right people?”
“As usual, Madam President, you have a very relevant point.”
She smiled. “You know, George, it still feels funny when people, even you, address me as President. I keep wanting to look around, see if there is anyone else in the room or standing behind me.”
George gave her a serious look. “Madam President, you are the right person for the job. Not to mention you are the only one who seems to want the job.”
“Well, old friend, you may be a bit prejudice concerning the first point, but the second you are spot on. I am one of the few surviving Congressional Representatives that I know of. The remaining state officials decided if I wanted the job, I could have it. Besides, I feel a responsibility to see Old Glory fly above the complete United States once again. Sounds kind of hokey, doesn’t it?”
“Hell no, Ma’am. That’s what I liked about you from the very beginning. You were a good, old-fashioned patriot, putting the country and its people first—rather than politics and party.”
Her eyes widened a bit. “You saw that in our first meeting, way back when?”
“Of course,” George said. Then he laughed. “I still remember you with that congressional delegation reviewing security on our nuclear weapons bases and installations. You were the Junior Congressperson, marched right by all the brass and went straight to me. Remember what you said, Sal?” The name Sal was a nickname her closest friends used, its origins lost in the passage of time.
“Yes, I do George. I said, ‘Chief, my daddy always said that if you really wanted to know what’s going on in a Military Unit, ask the Senior NCO’s. You’re a Chief Master Sergeant, so tell me—what’s the real story and status around here?’ I remember that because I saw the looks on the General’s and Colonel’s faces, not to mention my fellow most senior Congressmen and women. You thought I had pointed out a turd in the punch bowl.”
George broke into laughter. “That’s the gal I know. Not afraid to use a little salty language to make the point, or to thumb your nose at convention.” He stopped laughing, looking serious again.
“Madam President, it has always been a pleasure to serve you. People thought I was nuts when I was bluntly honest with you. They thought I had sealed a permanent assignment to Nome, Alaska. Then, suddenly everyone was bending over backwards to make sure I was taken care of. You know—you never did tell me the whole story behind all those backroom politics.”
“Well, since I didn’t give a damn if I were re-elected, I told the General Staff and my fellow Members of Congress that if they did anything to you for telling me the truth, I’d make sure every blogger on the internet would be streaming about the poor shape of our security. Most politicians had trouble with the light of day.”
“Yes Ma’am. Now, most of those politicians are dead, and many were eaten.”
George’s comment brought them back to the present. They both knew the odds of this attempt at a U.S. President succeeding over a crumbled system of surviving States. Many looked at Deseret as a more viable model, one of separate Nation States, operating under the Tschaaa radar. But not Madam President. She meant it when she said she wanted Old Glory to fly over the U.S.A. once again, all fifty states, not just eight.
Sandra chuckled. “You know, sticking with me did get you to Nome, Alaska after all. Anchorage and Fairbanks as well.” They both laughed, and without warning she stepped over and hugged George.
“I know this is outside normal decorum, but damn, I’ve always been a hugger. And you are my closest, dearest friend, not just my very Special Assistant.”
They hugged for a minute, the warmth of another human being who cared about them giving them both a sense of calm and security.
“Okay George, back to work. This Cattle Country. It exists just like we were told by those who fled to Montana?”
“Yes Ma’am. They now have a complete electronic and physical fence around the former states of Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi. Trapped in this super concentration camp is every African-American, dark-skinned Latino, Filipino, East Indian, and anyone with much of a tan who could be rounded up and forced into the area. People who resisted too much were harvested. And yes, Madam President, they’re going to be used as a breeding population.”
The woman’s eyes flashed in anger, as she smashed her fist down onto the desk. “That will not stand! We will start today finding a way to stop these… these monsters from treating us as just meat. We are all Americans, human beings, no matter the color of our skin.”
“Steel spine,” George said.
“Excuse me? Steel spine? What does that mean?”
“That, Madam President, is what people are saying about you. You have a steel spine, and you are the spine of steel for the Unoccupied States.”
The new President stood silent, processing what she had just heard. She knew she had trouble backing down from a fight if she felt she was right, or that someone was being misused and abused. But a steel spine? Margaret Thatcher had been the known as the Iron Lady. Did the surviving humans in North America need a symbol like a spine of steel to help them stand together?
“Well, I’ve been called worse things and been accused of having some less than desirable physical characteristics. Often it had to do with me having my head up a certain fundamental orifice. Or that I resembled a jackass, braying and all. So, having a spine of steel as an identifier? Not bad. Not bad at all.”
“Alright, next subject, George. General Reed. Is he in place at Malmstrom Air Base?”
“Yes Ma’am. Lots of people—especially survivors from various military units—have made it there, as well as the bases in North Dakota. He and his people are getting things organized, checking to see what ICBMs can be brought online—plus any other weapons of mass destruction.”
The President frowned. “Last resort, George. We start throwing nukes around, not only do we extend this Long Winter, but the Squids may just decide to rain rocks down on us again. Then, a fast trip to the Stone Age—if we survive.”
“Well ma’am, our invaders seem to become attached to our oceans and seas. So, they may hesitate on massive worldwide destruction. But they could decide to wipe out as many of us as they can, then start widespread harvesting again.”
“Hm. Yes, my large friend. They seemed to have really slowed down. One theory is that they have a billion or two frozen corpses in their starships to take on the long voyage home, with some breeding pairs also. The information about their original primary food source being wiped out by a plague seems to be checking out.”
George nodded his head. “Yes, Madam President. I just wish they would have found some other planet to harvest. Or at least waited another hundred years, so we would have a version of the USS Enterprise in orbit to protect us.”
The President smiled. “Nice fantasy. But that only happens in movies, it seems. But what about this Director Lloyd? How real is he?”
“Looks like he’s as real as we are. He’s doing in Key West and the Tschaaa controlled areas what we are trying to do here—create a sanctuary for humans to live, unmolested.”
“But under Squid control and cooperation, right?”
“Yes, Ma’am. And with full knowledge of what is going on in what is now Cattle Country. Lloyd is using it as a propaganda selling point to recruit people he needs�
�that there is no harvesting in the areas controlled by Lloyd and his people. Which seems to work, if for no other reason than that many people have no viable alternative. Move into an area occupied by the Squids and their robocops, lizards, and grays, as well as supported or controlled by the Director, and you are promised you and your kids will not be eaten.”
Sandra snorted. “Yeah. Give them better food to eat, a little entertainment, maybe a little self-rule and bingo—Vichy France all over again.”
She looked at George. “The problem with being a student of human history is that it keeps repeating itself. You’d think we learned something, especially when they start rounding up people for the rail cars.”
George sighed. “Yes, and racism, division based on color and slavery keep coming up. Only this time, a damned alien race is involved.”
The woman President stood, looking out the window.
“This scenery is fantastic. But we can’t keep hiding here. Eventually, the Squids will come for us. Or those psychotic Krakens and their sick religion. The clock is ticking.”
“Speaking of the clock, Ma’am, I’m supposed to remind you that you have dinner tonight with your daughter.”
“Thank you, George. Please, talk to your wife, and arrange a time when we can all get together.” She looked into his eyes. “You’re part of my family now. Families will be made by choice—not just by bloodline.”
“Sal, it’s an honor to be considered family. I always enjoyed the time we all spent together. Your late husband and son, well, they were special to Meagan and me also.”
There was silence for a few moments, then the President spoke again.
“They’re with the man upstairs, George, watching over my daughter and me. I feel their presence sometimes.”
She seemed to straighten up a bit, pulling her attention back to the present.
“Okay—I’m off. See you back here at zero dark thirty tomorrow George. Time to start cracking the whip.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
George Williams walked the new President out to the Humvee and its two military armed personnel. Presidential limos were a thing of the past. He got her seated, waved goodbye and walked over to the beat up but serviceable SUV he used. No guards for him. He was expendable.
There was still some snow on the ground, and he trudged through it. Funny how an old Georgia boy like himself could adapt to snow around most of the time. What was that saying, he thought? That which does not kill you makes you stronger. Yeah, that fit.
As he got ready to drive away he stopped, then said a small prayer.
“Lord, this sometimes lapsed Southern Baptist is thanking you for saving my wife and kids. I know there are storm clouds gathering, that many more good people will die. I just ask you to give me the strength to see this out. Give me the strength to see the day when man and woman kind are no longer reduced to an item on something’s dinner menu. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
He started the SUV.
“Nietzsche. That’s who it was,” George mumbled to himself. “That what does not kill you makes you stronger.”
As he drove out of the parking lot towards home, he chuckled.
“Yeah. Those Squids should have read Nietzsche, then killed us all. They won’t get a second chance.”
VILE SMUT
Darryl Biggs unlocked the front door of the shop as he had done so many times before. For once, he actually thought how many years had passed since a specific fateful day when he had opened early in the morning. Was it 6:00am, going on 7:00am? Well, everything was about to change if the rumors were true.
He opened the glass-paned door, then flipped the switch for the neon sign (was this the last operating neon sign in North America, he mused). It flickered into life and then radiated the red and blue lights which proclaimed the business name: VILE SMUT .
Underneath the lit sign was a smaller artistically lettered sign which spelled out Adult Books and Items. Darryl had the faded letters repainted just a year prior by one of the local residents of First Avenue, Seattle, Washington. He had to scrounge for parts for the old neon sign continually. He thought once again that he should replace it with newer LED lights.
“Good morning, Godfather Darryl.” The young female voice startled him for a moment before he placed the owner. He turned and frowned at the comely seventeen-year-old redhead, Angie, as he spoke.
“You just have to call me that, don’t you?”
“Because that is who you are to us. You’re the Godfather of downtown Seattle.”
Darryl snorted in response. Not for the first time did he question his fate or karma which had led him to this situation.
“What can I do you for, Angie?” he asked.
“So is it true? Is the War over? How about the Infestation? Are the Squids leaving?” Angie asked all the questions rapid-fire, like a machine gun.
“Whoa. That’s a lot of questions for, let me see, 7:00am in the morning,” answered Darryl.
Darryl smiled and then paused before he replied. He had known Angie Smyth since she was all of nine years old. He was like an uncle or stepfather to her and her mother, Joanne. If there hadn’t been such an age difference… he tamped down that thought.
“Well. Angie, those news reports over Free States Radio and Television are interesting. Maybe hopeful.”
“Just hopeful?” asked the young redhead. Darryl shrugged.
“All we have are the news reports. I have not been in contact with any of our so-called Squid friends from what was the Seattle Aquarium for almost two months.”
From a very early point in the first year of the Infestation, Tschaaa aliens had noticed him at his business and near the waterfront. He had looked for seafood for the increasing numbers of survivors who attached themselves to him and ‘his block.’ So the natural result was that one day a cyborg robocop contacted him to let him know that occasional fishing for food was allowed. However, should he or any other humans stray near the former Seattle Aquarium, they would become fish food. It seems the Tschaaa cephalopods had set up a breeding and child-rearing area near there.
“That’s all I know, Angie. Sorry.”
The young teen pouted. Darryl knew the Infestation had been extremely hard on the young ones. One minute, they were growing up with toys and boys. The next minute, space rocks were crashing down, then Squids and their minions running and wheeling around, harvesting them all like free-range chickens. Darryl had not been a spring chicken when the Infestation began, so had he been killed, hell, at least he had a life. To be killed not out of childhood yet…
Angie perked up. Like many of the younger generation, they had learned not to dwell on things.
“Hey, Godfather. You want some breakfast? Our chickens have been laying really well.”
“You know I’ll never turn down a free meal.” He answered. With that, she flashed a sweet, healthy smile.
“I’ll see if Mom can throw in some pancakes and some rabbit meat. They’re overproducing again.”
“That’s what rabbits do. They f--- I mean, you know, they…”
“Make more rabbits by humping,” Angie said with a sly look in her eye. “I know the drill.”
The young beauty turned and began to run south down the block.
“I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder.
Darryl smiled as he watched her run to the last storefront on the block, then take a left. Up the incline to Second Avenue was a former taco fast food restaurant, something about taco from the sea or a similar sounding name. He had helped Joanne to get the small kitchen up and running again during that first year. Now, it was a well known surviving eating establishment. In a small office space above on the second floor that had once held a small accounting firm was now an oversized hutch for rabbits and chickens. That was the secret source of the fresh meat and eggs the eatery now known as Joanne’s Hot Stuff was noted for. Darryl smiled, then went into his business.
Instead of leaving the door open he shut it. He placed the
“Be Back in Fifteen” sign up in the window. People would think he was in the John and would come back later. Everyone knew not to disturb the Godfather.
“Damn. How did I get into this mess?” he asked himself. He walked around the main counter where the cash register was and sat down. Everything was happening too fast and all at once. He looked at all the remaining well worn and oft dusty porno DVDs, magazines, and adult toys. The memories began to come.
That September morning began like so many others. The Early Shift man had called in sick (read that doped up) just before his Night Man, Jimmy, had closed up at 4:00am. Darryl years before had decided to close his shop between the hours of four and seven. Jimmy stayed until 5:00am, cleaning up semen stains in the back booths, any vomit and related smells from the occasional junkie and drunk. The Day Man, now Doug, was supposed to show up at 7:00am to open up. The two-hour break gave the place a chance to “air out” a bit from the smell and residue of human bodies, usually male, some washed, others semi-washed, others just nasty. Adult establishments like his First Avenue Adult Revue and DVD always attracted the transients and sometimes downright homeless who, for some change, rented one of the few remaining video booths to sit down and sleep for almost an hour in a dark and dry room. Sometimes, they pissed and crapped themselves.
Darryl usually arrived around 9:00 AM to check the overnight proceeds, peruse the stock of pornography-related material and see to the regular clientele. He had local office workers who dashed in during breaks to return the rentals, regular retirees who spent hours deciding just what they wanted to masturbate to, and then the occasional newbie who had always wanted to scope out one of the last adult erotica establishments in the Northwest. Internet porn, Amazon Delivers, satellite TV with subscription services to fit every person’s fetish, and freelance underground film producers has killed the traditional retail market. Darryl knew he was one of the last places that had the private video booths in the back for the whack-off artists who had a thing about an orgasm in a semi-public place. To each his own.
Free Range Protocol- Tales of the Tschaaa Infestation Page 24