by David Achord
“Oh, I was there, Zach.”
I looked at him in puzzlement. I’d made a point of looking at everyone in the room and he was not present.
“The conference room has cameras,” he explained. “I watched you on a monitor in another room.”
“Oh.”
He explained. “Sometimes I can get a better read of a person when I’m not around; a person’s demeanor is sometimes different when they’re in the presence of the President of the United States.”
“I see,” I said. “I suppose it makes sense.”
“Indeed,” he said. He addressed the ball with his driver. “You said a few things I found somewhat intriguing.”
“Um, thank you?”
He chuckled. “There were several things you didn’t say as well, Mister Gunderson.”
“Call me Zach, please.”
A wry grin spread on his face. “Zach, what’s your opinion on building a golf course?”
I thought a moment before responding and watched him hit the ball. This one had more distance than the previous one, but it still had a fade on it.
“A little more rotation in the hips, I think,” Earl said in a quiet voice. The president acknowledged the advice with a slight frown and then looked at me, waiting for my answer.
I cleared my throat. “I know people require some kind of recreational outlet, and I don’t know a whole lot about golf, but, if I understand correctly, a golf course requires an enormous amount of maintenance.”
“I suppose it does,” the president conceded.
“Well then, I think it’d be a waste of resources and labor,” I answered bluntly.
Earl looked startled, but to my surprise, the president laughed. “Did you hear that, Earl? The young man doesn’t mince words.”
“No, sir, he certainly doesn’t.”
President Richmond looked at me thoughtfully a moment before teeing up and hitting another drive. This one went straight and fairly long. He watched it long after it hit the ground.
“Yeah, more rotation. How far do you think, Earl?”
“That one had to be pretty close to three hundred, sir,” Earl replied.
I looked at him sharply. My range estimation skills were spot on, if I do say so myself, and I would have bet a New York Strip the ball travelled no more than two hundred yards, and that was after it rolled a good twenty. I was about to say something, but I caught sight of Raymond as he gave me a subtle, singular shake of his head. I got the hint. The president stopped talking and continued hitting balls. I guess the conversation was over.
“Sir, I’ll let you get back to your balls, um, I mean, your golf.”
He hit another shot and began speaking to me as he continued watching the ball.
“You believe these things are now communicating telepathically,” he stated.
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Interesting,” he said. He paused in thought and then turned to Raymond. “Have Mister Gunderson in the TOC after lunch for the mission briefings.” He then summarily dismissed us and went back to his balls.
“Well, that was an odd meeting,” I said to Raymond as we rode back to the main area.
“He was getting a feel for you,” Raymond said. “You must have passed muster.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Only a limited number of people have access to the tactical operations center. Most people here have no idea of what goes on in there.” He thought a minute; I guess he was thinking about how much he could tell me.
I looked at him thoughtfully as we rode. “I’m sensing a tenseness though.”
He stopped the cart and thought a minute. “Zach, we did not tell a single lie back when we recruited you people to come up here.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “But you didn’t tell us everything, did you?”
“What I’m about to tell you isn’t public knowledge.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Surprisingly, only ten percent of the satellites have gone offline. We still have access to most of the others. They give us some fairly decent intel of what is going on around the world.”
“Okay, I’m all ears, what are you guys seeing?”
“All major cities are totally overrun. It also appears there have been at least four nuclear events.” He held up a hand and displayed four fingers as he spoke. “Mumbai, Delhi, Peshawar, and Islamabad.”
“That sounds like India and Pakistan went to war with each other.”
Raymond nodded. “Yes, it appears so.” He looked solemn now. “We’ve had intermittent contact with other government entities. POTUS is getting the impression some countries are going to use nuclear devices in densely populated cities in an effort to eradicate the plague.”
“Raymond, tell me if I’m wrong, but won’t nuclear explosions screw up the earth’s climate?”
“If there are enough detonations, yes, without a doubt. The world leaders, what’s left of them, have held off, but there is a growing tension.”
“How so?” I asked.
“It’ll be discussed more during the meeting, but the human race is in danger of becoming extinct. Some of the leaders feel there is no other alternative than to go nuclear. The president believes if we can show proof we’ve manufactured an effective vaccine, it will keep them from doing so.”
“Sounds simple enough,” I said. “But, I’m sensing a problem.”
“There is an inner power struggle going on between the president and a couple of his political adversaries. We’ve been doing well, but some people are clamoring for an election.”
“I thought we were still under Martial Law,” I asked.
“Oh, the Constitution and every other law is now only something to talk about and not something to abide by. There have been many challenges. Now, here is where you come into play.”
“I think I’ve already figured it out. You need my continued cooperation, at least until an effective vaccine is produced.”
“Yes.”
I chuckled now. “Sure, Raymond. All I ask is honesty and to shoot straight.”
Raymond agreed and began driving again. I glanced over the parking lot where our truck and trailer were parked. The back door of the trailer was open and I saw someone crawling in.
“Stop the cart,” I ordered.
Chapter 6 – Savannah
“Who the hell are you?” Melvin demanded again.
“Savannah,” she croaked. She continued standing on top of the car, anxiously staring down at him.
Melvin couldn’t see much in the dark, but he did notice one thing, she was keeping her hands together, like she was hiding something. Melvin sprang suddenly, grabbed one of her feet, and pulled her off of the car. She hit the ground with a thud and an exhalation of breath. He swung his sword, slinging goo off of the blade, and then brought it down, stopping it a millimeter from her neck.
“Bring your hands up very, very slowly,” he growled. “And they better be empty.”
She struggled to catch her breath. Her face was fixed in mortal fear as she slowly held her hands up. “I’m handcuffed,” she said.
Melvin frowned in consternation. He used the flashlight and pointed it. The metal of the cuffs reflected the light. She wasn’t lying, he thought.
“Why are you cuffed?” he asked.
“I was being held prisoner,” she said and continued looking at Melvin anxiously.
Melvin wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he didn’t let his guard down. He squatted and put his knee against her chest. She let out a fearful moan as he put his weight against her.
“Quiet,” Melvin admonished and began searching her. There was no sexual motive to his actions. On one of his tours in Afghanistan, a Taliban prisoner had a small pocketknife hidden, and it was missed during a cursory search. The SOB came damn close to cutting Melvin’s throat. But, even so, when she whimpered, he felt a stab of guilt for treating her so roughly.
Finding nothing, he stood up. She lay there looking up at him, raindrops hitt
ing her frightened face. She looked like a drowned cat. A starving drowned cat. He looked around before focusing on her with the flashlight. She wasn’t much to look at. A ragged pair of jeans, a gaudy plaid long-sleeved shirt that was soaking wet and clinging to her. When he brought the light to her face, there was a look of utter despair.
“Are you going to rape me?” she asked.
Melvin looked at her in surprise. “What? Why do you think that?”
“Because you’re…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
Melvin suddenly understood. He was totally nude, splattered with zombie goo, and standing over her wielding a war sword. He imagined he looked like a raving lunatic. He took a deep, calming breath.
“C’mon,” he said and helped her to her feet. She felt light as a feather, causing Melvin wonder when she’d eaten last. “Can you walk?”
“I think so,” she rasped.
“What’s wrong with your voice?” he asked. “You sound like you’ve been eating rock salt.”
“I’m thirsty,” she responded.
As Melvin stood there looking at her, she started swooning. Melvin caught her before she did a face plant and cradled her in his arms. She whimpered again and he could feel her whole body shaking uncontrollably.
“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.”
She looked up at Melvin, wild-eyed fear etched on her face. When a nearby lightning bolt cracked, she jerked violently.
“Easy now,” he soothed and looked around. “Let’s get out of this rain.”
He carried her back to the auto detail garage, walked inside, and set her down in a chair.
“Wait here,” he said.
He hurried back to the bay and went directly to his truck. He dried off with a towel and then picked some dry clothes out of a duffel bag in the back seat. He slung the towel over his shoulder, and then grabbed an assortment of items. Picking up the candle in the soda can, he walked back in the main room. He expected her to have run out of the front door as soon as he walked out of sight, but surprisingly, she was still sitting in the chair.
“Alright, let’s get those cuffs off. Hold your hands out,” he directed. He had a key ring of various gadgets, a handcuff key being one of them. When she held out her hands, they were shaking uncontrollably, making it a little difficult to work the key into the locking mechanisms, but after a minute, he had the cuffs open. He looked at them before putting them in his pocket. After all, he might put them back on her later.
“Thank you,” she mumbled and tenderly rubbed her wrists. “May I have some water now?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Melvin said and handed her the canteen.
She took it tentatively, unscrewed the top, and turned it up. Water ran down her face as she slaked it down. Melvin reached out and pulled it out of her hands. She jerked back, as if expecting Melvin to give her a slap for some perceived transgression.
“Easy,” he admonished. “If you drink too fast, you’ll get cramps and throw up.” He handed the canteen back. “Take slow sips.”
She nodded worriedly and did as Melvin instructed. He watched her and let her take several sips before speaking.
“What’d you say your name is?” he asked.
“Savannah,” she replied, her voice clearer now, and continued sipping.
“Who else is with you?”
Savannah shook her head, causing more water to dribble down her chin. “Nobody, I’m alone.”
“What’re you doing wandering out here alone, and in handcuffs?”
“I was being held captive,” she said. “But I got away.”
Melvin narrowed his eyes. “From whom?” he asked.
“They call themselves the Blackjacks. I was one of their…”
Her voice cracked a little and she didn’t finish. She didn’t have to, Melvin knew all about the Blackjacks. He’d bumped into them not too long ago. They were not nice people, which caused him sudden concern. The last thing he wanted was to bump into any of them by accident.
“Are they somewhere around here?” he asked.
Savannah shrugged. “I don’t know. I escaped two nights ago. I don’t even know where I am.”
“You’ve been running around for two days while handcuffed?” he asked in surprise.
“Yes, sir,” she answered.
“Without food or water?”
She nodded. “When it started raining, I got some in my mouth, but not much.”
“Damned impressive,” he said, got up, and wrapped a blanket around her.
“Thank you,” she said and pulled it tight.
The water seemed to have helped a little; her tone was no longer raspy. Now it was soft, wobbly. She stared at the floor and would only cast short quick glances at him. He tried to be nonfrightening, avuncular.
“I bet you’re hungry too.”
She gave a slow nod as she stole another look at him. Melvin nodded back at her, picked up an MRE package, and read the label.
“Ah, this is a good one, chicken with rice, and it has a fudge brownie in it.” He cut it open and handed it to her. She ineptly fumbled with the individual packages.
“Here,” he said and tore them open for her. “Alright, remember to eat slowly.”
“Okay.”
She started with the fudge brownie and devoured it in seconds.
“Go slow,” he admonished again.
She nodded as she licked her fingers clean, then started in on the chicken. He watched her in silence as the storm raged outside. The speed at which she ate began to slow. After a minute, she stopped.
“I don’t think I can eat anymore,” she apologized.
“No problem,” Melvin said and took it from her. He looked over the leftover food and gauged her intake. It wasn’t much.
“Your stomach has shrunk,” he said. “You’ll get your appetite back in no time, but don’t try to force it; you’ll only mess yourself up.” He hated to see food go to waste, especially these days, and began eating the rest of it.
Savannah adjusted the blanket. She was still shaking.
“You should get out of those wet clothes,” he said.
“I’m okay,” she muttered, and as Melvin watched, her eyelids fluttered and her chin slowly dropped to her chest. He caught her before she did a face plant.
“Damn it,” he muttered, thought about it a moment, and then carried her to the cot in the back room. She was still shaking as he laid her down. The wet clothes weren’t helping.
“Damn it,” he muttered again and began taking them off. When she was nude, he used the flashlight to inspect her. She looked rough, emaciated, bruised, scratched up, and battered, but there weren’t any bite marks, which he took as a good sign. He covered her with the blanket and adjusted the mosquito netting.
“Guess I’m not sleeping on the cot tonight,” he mumbled to himself.
When he was finished, he straightened and looked at her in the dark. If she was a captive of the Blackjacks, there was only one reason why they kept her alive. The land was filled with lawless heathens nowadays and a young girl like Savannah was easy pickings. It was a shame. He could only imagine what she’d been through. Rape, abuse, degradation, you name it. He doubted she’d ever be the same. He’d been diagnosed with PTSD, courtesy of his last mission in Afghanistan, but he couldn’t even fathom the torment she’d gone through.
He secured the front door as best he could and then retrieved a couple of trash bags out of the back of the truck. Both of them were full of used plastic water bottles. They were a good rudimentary alarm system. He spread them around the floor. If anyone came in during the night, it’d be nearly impossible for them not to step on one or two. The noise of crinkling plastic would, in theory, wake him, alerting him to an unwelcome intruder.
Satisfied, he got into his truck and put the seat back. It wasn’t the most comfortable position in the world, but he’d gotten used to it.
Chapter 7 – Thievery
“What is it, Zach?” Raymond asked.
I could hear at least two of them talking to each other and rummaging around. One part of my brain was saying there might be a perfectly logical explanation, but the other half was telling me to pull my hideout gun and shoot on sight.
I stopped at the side, out of sight of whoever was inside and collected my thoughts. Who was inside the trailer? I spotted the padlock; it was lying on the ground and had been cut. It was the confirmation I needed. Somebody was stealing from me. The rage built inside me as I watched articles were being thrown out and landing on the ground. I heard Raymond jogging up.
“Who is it?” he whispered.
“I’m about to find out,” I growled and walked around to the open doors.
The first one saw me as he was crouching to jump out of the trailer. His expression was one of surprise, and then he gave a challenging stare. I didn’t say a word as I grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him out. He hit the asphalt with a thud and an exhalation of air. Blood flew as the toe of my boot impacted with his nose. He groaned in pain, and I was about to kick him again, but didn’t get a chance.
I’d stupidly turned my back to the open door, which the second one took advantage of. He jumped on my back, wrapped his legs around me, and began hammering me with rabbit punches to the side of the head. But, the punches were soft, not a person who was accustomed to fighting. I quick-stepped backwards and slammed his back against the lower edge of the trailer. He gasped in pain, and his leg lock around my torso slackened. Working one of his legs loose, I grabbed an arm and twisted sharply, flipping him onto the asphalt beside his buddy. Raising my boot, I was about to stomp his face into oblivion when I realized it wasn’t a man, but a woman.
She glared at me in a mixture of pain and anger. Now, back before, an honorable man would never hit a woman. But, this wasn’t before. This was after, and stealing someone’s property was a serious offense.