by Roger Hayden
Julie remained apprehensive and doubtful of their current path.
"There's no way out once you go in. Don't you see that?" Julie said.
Paul raised a hand, disregarding her.
"Look, Julie, there's nowhere else for me to go."
"What if she's not at the convention center?" Julie asked.
"What are you taking about? You know the convention center is our best shot.
"Fine," she replied with her arms crossed. "Don't blame me if we can't get our car back."
They reached the traffic cones and the opportunity to go a different route had diminished.
"What hotel was she staying at?" Julie asked.
"Hotel? Um. I don't remember," Paul said, steering ahead.
"I'm sure she told you."
Paul thought to himself long and hard as they merged into the single lane with the other vehicles.
"She's was staying at the Marriott," Paul said.
They entered the fenced-in lot and were directed to park in an orderly fashion next to the vehicle that was in front of them. The lot was filling fast. At some point it was obvious that there wasn't going to be enough room for everyone.
"Try to remember where we parked," Paul said taking off his seat belt.
Unresponsive, Julie observed the other tired and confused-looking drivers who exited their cars and wandered to the lines they were told to form.
"Who are those people?" she asked.
Paul looked around.
"What people?" he asked.
"The ones with the clipboards ordering people around an' stuff."
"I don't know. FEMA? Either way, they can probably help us find your mother."
Just then, one of the clip board men knocked on Paul's window.
"Please exit your car, sir," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Paul nodded and looked at Julie.
"Let's go," he said.
Paul stepped out and proceeded to stretch as Julie soon followed.
"Should we take our things?" she asked Paul.
The sleek bureaucrat decided to cut-in.
"Please take all your belongings and line up with the others. We'll escort you to the convention center momentarily."
"You see that, Julie? They can make the decisions for us?" Paul said, half sarcastically.
Paul and Julie took their place in a single-file line of nearly twenty other drivers. A different clip-board man, more disheveled than the previous one, approached them.
"Good morning, my name is Marshall Hunt, I'm with Colorado emergency management, and I'll just need to get your personal information before we leave."
A woman with messed up hair and heavy bags under eyes raised her hand.
"Yes ma'am," the clip-board man said.
"Any news from Nevada?" she asked.
The clip-board man hesitated.
"Information is very limited right now. We know of several confirmed attacks around the country. Most of them were along the East Coast."
"What about Florida, I've got family in Florida," an upset man shouted out.
"Massachusetts?" another man asked.
"Where's the news? Why don't we know anything?" an older woman, wearing a tattered shawl asked. The questions piled on top of each other as the group turned into an orchestra of indecipherable clamor.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please," the clip-board man pleaded. "I need to log your information and then escort you to the convention center at once."
"But--" a man interrupted.
"That is enough! There'll be no more questions," the clip-board man said as his face flushed red. The tired group went quiet, ready to begin the registration process. Paul wanted answers as well, but did his best to not pester the man if it meant finding Samantha in the end.
The group was led a few blocks down the street to the convention center as promised. Julie took a look back and noticed them closing the gate to the lot where they had parked.
"I knew it," she said tugging on Paul's jacket sleeve. "I told you we would lose the car."
Paul took a look back then down to Julie.
"We'll get our car back, stop worrying about it."
She felt as though Paul was going soft. He preached to her about vigilance, but seemed to do whatever was asked by the bureaucrats who probed him for information only a few minutes before. The front of the convention center was massively crowded, as if there was a rock concert of basketball game about to begin. Though the new arrivals wouldn't be so lucky. A bustling bull pen at over-capacity awaited them along with more confusion and questions than they had faced before. For the officials in Denver, it was all by design. Military trucks from Colorado's National Guard pulled up to the convention center and dispensed more evacuees.
"Why the convention center?" Paul thought as he gripped Julie's hand in the crowd. "Why do they want to bring everyone here?"
His eyes lit up as he saw tables lined along the front of the convention center under the Blue Bear--a giant statue of a bear and famous Denver landmark, at least three stories tall, which stood peering inside the glass windows. At the tables sat the records men; those who had the names of everyone who had checked in. Paul noticed the men and their records. They were his ticket to Samantha. Paul pulled Julie out of line with him as they pushed through the crowd and waited in line to give them Samantha's name.
"Not on the list," the pointy-headed and frigid man stated unsympathetically.
"Samantha Thompson," Paul repeated again. "She has to be here. I know she was here only a few weeks ago."
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't see her on here," pointy-head said as he waved for the next person to approach. Paul wasn't ready to give up.
"Are you sure? Maybe they missed her. Are there any other records I can look at? Let me see the list," Paul said with his hand out.
"You want to go in there and search for her, be my guest, but I'm telling you that there is no Samantha Thompson on the list. Next!"
Paul reluctantly got out of the way as an anxious woman pushed her way to the table.
"What now?" Julie asked.
Paul looked at the seemingly unending line of people being led into the convention center. The herd was growing more unruly by the minute. Small skirmishes broke out. Several people were taken out of line and pulled aside by authorities. Armed National Guard Soldiers were abundant, setting up makeshift posts around the perimeter.
"We go in there, who knows what we'll find," Paul said in an exhausted and disappointed tone.
"Maybe she escaped before it turned into...whatever it is now," Julie said.
Paul looked down the road, the only thing in sight were law enforcement, military, Red Cross, and Emergency Management vehicles. Then something became apparent to Paul, though he wasn't entirely sure.
"It looks like they've declared some type of martial law," he said out loud.
"Huh?" Julie asked.
"Nothing, Julie. We're getting out of here," Paul said. He took her by the hand as they carefully slipped away from the convention center and towards a sign for the Marriott Hotel a few blocks down the road.
The hotel was deserted. It rested between several occupied buildings; the doors were locked as well. Paul pulled on each of the four glass doors and got nowhere. The creeping feeling of defeat rifled through his gut. It was hopeless.
"Why did they lock the doors?" Julie asked.
Paul swung around.
"I don't know, but I say it's pretty unlikely that your mother is here."
Julie's feelings were a tad hurt by his tone, only because she sensed an implication.
"Guess we'll try our luck back at the convention center," Paul said. He began to walk down the sidewalk, but stopped and noticed Julie still standing by the doors.
"Come on, we better go before they arrest us or something," he continued.
"You can't give up that easily, she could be hiding in her hotel room or something," Julie protested. Paul turned and laughed.
"Listen to yourself. Why
would your mom hole herself up in the hotel room of a deserted hotel for two weeks? Why on earth would anyone do that?"
"Because she's scared!" Julie shouted. "Maybe she didn't want to be packed in with a million people in the convention center."
"You're not making any sense," Paul said, disregarding her emotional tone.
"I'm not going to make her think she lost us for one more minute. It's worth checking out," Julie said as she ventured to a quaint rock garden in the curbside courtyard. She grabbed the largest rock she could find, about the size of a football, and walked to the door.
"Julie, wait!" Paul called out. She turned around, holding the rock up.
"Here," he said with an outstretched arm. "Let me do it."
It was a risky move, but after couple of hits to the first glass door, they were in. Paul was expecting an alarm so loud and furious that the entire world would hear it. Instead, he heard nothing. He considered the possibilities of a silent alarm, but soon his worries vanquished once they reached the lobby desk. The inside of the hotel was dark due the shut blinds. Not a single person was in sight. Paul pondered the possibilities of the Marriott becoming the next "evacuee center" once the convention center became too overcrowded, which it most certainly had.
He walked behind the mahogany check-in counter and looked around. Not surprisingly, the computers had no power. Paul looked around for answers as Julie paced the lobby trying to compose a plan of her own. "Think, Paul, think," he said to himself. There were hundreds of rooms by his estimate, and they couldn't very well go to each and every door.
First step: find Samantha's room. Second step: go to room, knock on door. If there's no answer, find a way in. Samantha's stuff may still be there. A sign. A clue. Something. Thoughts fluttered through Paul's head like a last-minute shopping list. His plan seemed a ridiculous long shot. Their search led them to small lobby office where he scoured every cabinet and drawer in their path. Julie questioned his wanton trashing of the office.
"Receipts, I'm looking for receipts," he answered. "There may be a printout with Samantha's name on it. They should have her room number on it."
After an hour of searching they found a file of invoices for the month and remarkably discovered one with Samantha's name on it. She was in room 237. They took the stairs and in no time rapt on the door's thick wood surface with the energy of two people who had traveled over a thousand miles just to knock on a door. After knocking, Paul noticed that the door had already been pried open. It looked as if someone had taken a crowbar to its side and vaulted it open in haste. The sign of forced entry made Paul sick with nervousness.
"Be careful," he said to Julie, before pushing the door open. "I'm not sure what we'll find in here."
Once inside, Paul's attention instantly went to Samantha's clothes on the bed. Her pocket book rested on the night stand.
"She's here!" Paul said with exasperated glee. "Or she was here. This is good, Julie, this is really good."
Paul darted around the room like a maniac while Julie went to the bed and rifled through her mother's clothing. She picked up one of the shirts and breathed it in. It was still fresh with Samantha's scent.
"Samantha!" Paul cried out. He looked in the bathroom then swept the room in a frenzy.
"She's not here," Julie said. "Take a breather."
She took another of her mother's shirts and smelt it too. There was no denying that her mother had been there.
"She must have left in haste. Her travel suitcase isn't here, but her clothes are. She left her pocketbook, but we know that she has her phone," Paul said.
He grabbed the pocketbook and searched through it. There was cash, credit cards, her identification, and some receipts.
"Why wouldn't she take this with her?" Paul asked. "Something isn't right."
"Maybe she's coming back. Maybe we should wait for her," Julie suggested.
A small business card fell from Samantha's pocketbook and landed on the green carpet below. Paul knelt down and picked it up. The card was for the legal offices of Bryant and Bryant, a Colorado based law firm. He flipped the card over and discovered a message written in pen.
Call Me
303-254-5547
Chapter Four
Welcome to the Bunker
Three weeks before Paul and Julie stormed her hotel room, Samantha stood at her Motorola booth with a grumbling in her stomach. She had regretted skipping lunch, but supervising a team of young associates took its toll in such a way. The 23rd Annual Retail Conference and Technology Expo was in full force on its second day one early-Friday afternoon. One more day and Samantha could go back home and see her family. Walking the premises and manning the booth since nine in the morning had been strangely exhausting. Maybe it was the crowd, or perhaps the veiled sense of phony comradery with nearby competitors. Regardless, she took comfort in packing up their conference booth and grabbing a bite to eat with her team of six eager college kids from the area.
Back in Beech Creek, she had worked groups of similar age, supervising the promotional work of handing out fliers at local malls, high school football games, and restaurants. Her boss, Mr. Blanchard, at the Motorola shop in Beech Creek often told her to "send the kids anywhere and everywhere," even if soliciting was prohibited. At the convention center Samantha had no such worry, though the myriad of other companies had the same idea. Promotion was hard work.
It was time to check on her team when Samantha noticed an esteemed entourage making their way to her booth. Several men in suits wearing VIP badges stood across a Verizon booth receiving a demonstration on a new line of tablets. She couldn't tell if they were corporate executives, or just a couple business-men on a casual stroll. As they grew closer, she saw that some of the men in the group were part of a security detail. They wore black Armani suits, ear pieces and had pistols at their hip. They looked like secret service. As the group left the Verizon presentation and strolled towards Samantha, she looked around for her team. No one was near. Samantha was going to have to do it on her own.
Upon closer inspection, she saw that the men in the group donned American flag lapels over their suit coats. They were particularly well-groomed and beaming with smiles and friendliness. Several reporters tagged along with notepads in hand. They were headed directly for Samantha's booth. A quick panic, and she prepared herself for their questions. One of the men, with slick-moussed silver hair and strong Sapphire-blue eyes, approached her with his arm outstretched. "Hello, I'm Senator Jeff Bryant," he said.
Samantha took his hand and shook it with her most convincing smile.
"I'm Samantha Thompson, nice to meet you gentlemen."
Senator Bryant gripped her hand, not wanting to let it go. Samantha gave an awkward pull to free her hand as she smiled back politely.
The men were politicians, which explained the security detail around them. She wondered what their presence meant and what they would ask. They could be searching the expo for potential government contracts, or perhaps it was an opportunity for a photo-op; either way, Samantha was on her toes. Another man, shorter than the Senator, and slightly balding, stepped forward after examining Samantha's booth.
"I'm State Representative Carl Gillespie."
The third man, with black, oily hair, seemingly wearing a light cover of bronze makeup over his face, entered the fray to shake Samantha's hand.
"And I'm Congressman Alex Savini," he said with a smile. A photographer jumped to the side and flashed a picture of the entourage.
"Yep," Samantha thought. "Must be a photo-op."
Senator Bryant stepped in, his attention locked onto Samantha.
"My colleagues and I were just in the neighborhood and wanted to see the best of what this year's expo has to offer. We're extremely proud that Denver is hosting this cutting-edge event, and also excited of what's to come."
"Yes, thank you," Samantha responded. "I'm excited to be here as well."
She felt all of their eyes on her: reporters, politicians, security detail, k
nowing that everything she said had the possibility of ending up in the next day's paper. But things weren't going to get any easier. The next day, she had a full presentation to give on smartphones and Bluetooth accessories. If she couldn't handle a little pressure from the unexpected group of politicians, she was in trouble. Samantha stepped in front of her booth and presented some products to the group. She picked up a tiny ear piece and passed it around the group.
"When it comes to hands free headsets, size matters, so Motorola has developed the smallest Bluetooth currently on the market. Once connected, all functions are voice-activated."
She pointed to a tablet screen where a promotional video played showing visuals of the ear piece and how it worked.
"In addition to scrolling contacts, you can stream radio stations, make purchases, and even have messages read back to you, all without looking at a screen or using your hands."
The group seemed mildly impressed, as the ear piece made its way back to Samantha. She then presented a new line of Motorola android phones. The esteemed group nodded their heads along and soon moved on to the next booth.
"Quick and painless," Samantha thought.
However, one of the politicians, Senator Bryant, remained. He smiled again to her, obviously expecting one in return.
"Thank you for your lovely presentation," he said.
As he moved in closer, Samantha could smell his musky scent.
"It was my pleasure, nothing really," she responded.
Samantha noticed that he was staring at her, even when she looked away.
"What?" she asked with a slight nervous laugh.
"I'm sorry," Senator Bryant said, snapping out of his gaze. "It's just. You look so familiar. Are you sure we haven't met before?"
"No, I'm pretty sure we haven't. I'm only in Denver in business."
"Maybe we met on a plane somewhere," Bryant continued.
Samantha laughed.
"I hardly think that's possible. I think I would recognize you."
In response, he placed a hand over his heart in feigned shock.