The Border

by Robert McCammon

  Olivia had joined them after a short stay in the infirmary. The doctor, a no-nonsense military man with close-cropped hair like grains of dark sand covering his scalp, had appraised her, taken her blood pressure, checked her heart and lungs, asked her to follow a moving light by keeping her head motionless, and in the end had given her a Valium and told her she could rest in one of the rooms. He had promptly gone off to give care to his many other patients who’d either been brought in or who had staggered in after the attack. Olivia had taken to a bed for about thirty minutes but had decided she was feeling calmer thanks to the Valium, and she was ready to leave. Before she’d left she had checked on both Nikki and Hannah, who also occupied beds in rooms there. Nikki was coming around, feeling better though she wanted to stay right where she was. Hannah was sleeping, looking now in repose like a very old, thin, and tired woman, and Olivia had asked one of the nurses for a notecard and written on it Hannah, I’ll check on you later. Rest while you can and don’t worry about anything. Have faith. Love you, Olivia.

  The cafeteria was brightly lit and bore on its pale blue-painted walls framed photographs of American scenes: Times Square aglow with neon and crowded with people, the Golden Gate catching rays of sunlight that pierced through San Francisco fog, giant redwoods and vivid green moss-covered earth in the John Muir Woods, Boston Harbor on the day of a parade of various red-white-and-blue-decorated boats, a Kansas wheatfield that stretched as far as one could see under the blazing blue sky of summer, massive oaks lining the gravel roadway that led to a restored plantation house somewhere in the South, and other pictures of what used to be. Ethan regarded them in silence and wondered how those could possibly help the morale of the officials and soldiers who had been forced to take refuge here. This was the last stop, he thought. The last station of the line, the place to hunker down after some terrible war or disaster had claimed not only this country, but the entire earth.

  There were a couple of dozen other people in the cafeteria, soldiers and civilians alike. They kept their distance from the new arrivals. The food today was chicken noodle soup in a small plastic cup, one yeast roll, and a little orange juice in a second plastic cup. There was a bin for the recycling of the cups. Dave got up for a second helping and was told by a surly cook that he couldn’t have any more, so that was that.

  However, there was plenty of coffee. Dave had a plastic cup of it and wondered if there were drugs in it. He couldn’t figure how anybody here could get through a day, much less a week, or a month, without some kind of either stimulant or antidepressant. Without windows, the place felt like a prison; the men and the women here moved slowly and deliberately, and their expressions were mostly blank. They had all lost family members, friends, homes, and the security of their own lives. They had received their death sentence, and they were waiting for the execution.

  How much longer they thought they could hold out here, he didn’t know. The alien attack must’ve driven home the futility of this place. It was going to take one hell of a lot of effort to get that garage cleaned up, and he doubted the entranceway could be sealed again. Maybe that was how they got along from day to day, Dave thought. They just concentrated on the task right in front of them and did it, eight-hour shift after eight-hour shift.

  The group ate in silence. Ethan heard their thoughts but gave no comment, not wanting to intrude. Olivia was still wan-looking and sometimes sat staring at nothing, her mind freighted with the death of John Douglas and the reality of their seemingly hopeless situation. She was fooling herself that she was doing better; she was really ready to crawl into a corner and pull the walls around her as protection. Ethan saw that two pictures played over and over in her brain: the young Secret Service agent lying in the corridor with his skull horribly crushed, and the headless monster in the garage with smoke rising from its burning chest.

  She was nearly at the bitter end of her rope. Ethan didn’t know what he could say to her that would give her some comfort. In fact there was nothing he could say, so he remained silent.

  “Look who’s coming to visit,” said Jefferson.

  Vance Derryman was approaching. He stopped at another table to talk briefly with a man in a gray-striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up. During the conversation, Derryman motioned toward the table of new arrivals, and the man nodded and looked at them, his face gaunt and hard and revealing absolutely nothing. Then Derryman continued on his path, and when he reached them he took a white handkerchief from within his suit jacket and polished the lenses of his glasses.

  “He wants to see us,” said Ethan.

  “That’s right.”

  “What does he want to see us about?” Dave asked.

  “Not all of us,” Ethan explained. “Only Jefferson and me.”

  “Right again.” Derryman put his glasses back on. “Of course I’ll be with you.”

  “Don’t mind us,” said Dave, with a shrug. “We’ll just stay here with the peons.” The cafeteria was on Level Two but further back in the mountain from the garage. Ethan and Jefferson followed Derryman out to a second stairwell. On Level Four, they were entering the President’s living area from another direction. The Marine Sergeant Akers was waiting there with his automatic rifle to escort them.

  They went along the corridor a short distance to the double doors that Jefferson had seen previously. “Thank you, Sergeant,” Derryman said, as dismissal to the Marine. Then Derryman pressed the white button of a doorbell on the wall, and a simple, single chime sounded from within.

  “I was expecting ‘Hail To The Chief’,” Jefferson said with a nervous laugh, but Derryman did not respond.

  One of the doors was opened almost as soon as the chime ended. Amanda Beale stood there, bleary-eyed but a little more stable than she’d been at the taping an hour ago. She was wearing the same clothes, a pair of brown slacks and a white blouse that was beginning to yellow from a few too many washings. “In,” she said, and turned away from them, her job done.

  With Derryman going first, they crossed the threshold into a homey apartment with a dark blue throw rug on the hardwood floor, plenty of solid-looking American-crafted furniture and on the walls pieces of framed nature-themed artwork that Jefferson Jericho figured could be bought by the yard at any Pottery Barn. He couldn’t help but watch the roll of Amanda Beale’s hips as she walked away and wonder if she still shagged the top guy or if they played musical beds around here when they weren’t thinking about aliens and the end of the world. He wouldn’t mind giving that a shot, so to speak.

  Then he felt the silver eyes upon him, and he ducked his head a little bit.

  “Good afternoon,” said the President as he came through a hallway in dramatic fashion. He was smiling, but it was a terrible thing to see because there was so much pain in his eyes. He wore the pleated trousers of his suit, and his white shirt was open at the neck. He stopped well short of them and did not offer his hand. “Thank you for coming up. Let’s go in the study.”

  The study was off the hallway. One wall was a huge photographic mural of an aerial view of Washington, which obviously tried to make up for the lack of windows. On another wall was a large corkboard with a map of the entire United States pinned on it and also several smaller regional maps. Somebody had gone a little overboard making circles and arrows with a black Magic Marker, and Jefferson figured those were the movements of troops, tanks and fighter jets that weren’t really there. Shelves held books that seemed to be more for decoration than for reading, just like the stage set, because everything was lined up and stacked just so. A massive antique desk was the centerpoint of the room; it had an American flag carved into the wood on front and two carved eagles, one on either side. A pair of black leather chairs had been pulled up to the desk and behind it was a third. There was a fourth black leather chair in the corner and a fabric-covered sofa that tricked the eye into a question of whether it was gray or green. In any case, Jefferson thought this must’ve been carted from the Goodwill store in Salt Lake City when they ran ou
t of taxpayer money for black leather.

  “Close the door, Vance.” Beale settled himself into the swivel chair behind his desk. “Sit down here, please.” He was speaking to Ethan and Jefferson, and he motioned toward the two chairs that faced him. “Is it cool enough in here for you? We can get the air turned down, if you like.”

  “I’m not from a frozen world,” said Ethan.

  “Oh…right. Well…your eyes…it’s a cold color.”

  Derryman sat down on the sofa, crossed his legs and prepared himself for anything, because he had no idea what Beale wanted with these two other than a declaration that the President was “curious” about them.

  “We have fruit juice,” Beale said. “Apple and orange. I’d offer you something stronger, but we’re having to conserve that.” He had spoken it to Jefferson.

  “Do you have coffee?” Ethan asked. Then he thought better of it, that maybe it wouldn’t be good if he had any more and he had to eliminate the liquid waste up here in the President’s bathroom. That just didn’t seem right. “Never mind, I’m fine with nothing.”

  “All right.” Beale leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, as if something very important there had caught his attention. He seemed to be drifting away right before their eyes, and Jefferson had to follow the line of the man’s gaze to see if he was studying a spider or had been mesmerized by a cobweb that wafted back and forth in the breeze from the ceiling vent.

  “Sorry, I’m just thinking,” said Beale, bringing himself back to the moment. “Jefferson Jericho. Yes, I remember you. It took awhile for that to click in. You know…there’s a lot on my mind these days, you understand.”

  “I do.”

  “But we’re not going to lie down and die,” the President said. A small tic surfaced at his left eye like a disturbance on a still pond. His hand came up and, whether unconsciously or not, rubbed the offending place as if to make it stop. “Too many have died already. Brave men and women, fighting for us. And children…they’ve died too. Do you think we should give up, lie down and die? Then…what would have been the purpose?”

  “We’re a long way from giving up,” said Derryman.

  “Yes, we are. The cities are coming back. You heard my speech, didn’t you?”

  Jefferson nodded carefully.

  “The reports I’m getting…there are people out there…not soldiers, just ordinary civilians…who are fighting back. Thank God they have guns, and two years ago I never would’ve said this but thank God some people know how to make bombs.”

  “Right,” said Jefferson.

  “We’ll win, eventually. The Cyphers and the Gorgons…they can’t grind us under. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. This is being worked on right this minute. Should I tell them about the G-bombs, Vance?”

  Both Ethan and Jefferson saw that Derryman’s face had darkened. Ethan was able to know what was coming because the President’s mind was a tattered flag blown full of holes, but he remained silent.

  “If you like,” Derryman answered, his voice barely audible.

  “The G-bombs are being put together in Kentucky. In some of the caves,” Beale said, all his focus on Jefferson. “There are going to be thousands when the project is finished. It’s germ warfare. We’re going to drop those bombs on the Gorgon and Cypher strongholds. Ordinary earth bacteria, harmless to us because we’re used to them. We’re immune. But the aliens…they won’t know what hit them. Thousands of G-bombs, falling on them. You see?”

  No one spoke.

  “That’s how the earth was saved in War Of The Worlds,” Beale said. “We can make it happen. Then we burn the corpses and use bulldozers to bury what’s left. Corpses,” he repeated, and he frowned. “Would you say ‘carcasses’, Vance? What’s your take on that?”

  The peacekeeper had to speak. “Sir, where are their strongholds?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Their strongholds.” Ethan felt Derryman about to interrupt, so he held up an index finger to gain himself another moment. “Where are they, on the map?”

  “It doesn’t matter where they are right now,” Derryman said. “By the time the project is completed, we’ll have to reassess the situation.”

  Ethan turned his head to take the man in. “Do you really believe you’re doing the correct thing?”

  Again, a silence stretched. Jefferson had to shift his position and clear his throat, because suddenly the atmosphere in the room had become uncomfortably heavy.

  “Jefferson Jericho!” said the President, bringing up another labored smile. “I watched your broadcast a few times. Well…twice. Amanda enjoyed the music. You had a choir on from Atlanta, one time I watched. I have to say…I never would’ve recognized you. Even now…hard to see you in there.”

  “I’ll have to shave and get a shower. That’ll help.”

  “And…you said the name Leon Kushman. I was thinking, trying to remember. So many people, so many faces. But then I did connect it. The party at Ginger Wright’s condo, May of 1992. We were in Little Rock for Clinton’s benefit dinner. Sure, I remember you. My God, that seems like a long time ago!”

  “A lifetime,” Jefferson agreed.

  “We kicked back. Everything going on around us, all kinds of crazy, and we kicked back. I remember…you seemed like a guy who was going places. Had a lot of ambition. And you made something of yourself, didn’t you?”

  “I did try.”

  “You did a lot more than try, Leon. But I guess I should call you Jefferson, right?”

  “That’s the name on my driver’s license now.”

  The comment brought forth another silence. The President abruptly swiveled his chair around to gaze at the photographic mural. It was a time before he spoke again. It was his study and maybe all that was left to him in the world, so no one rushed him or prodded.

  “What a great city,” he said, and his voice seemed hushed and faraway. “All the beautiful buildings. All the monuments to dead people. I was thinking last night…just lying in bed and thinking…about the Library of Congress, and the Smithsonian. Those treasures…those magnificent things. What’s happened to them, Vance?”

  “I’m sure they’re still there, sir.”

  “But they may not be. They may all be burned up. Everything gone. Some of those buildings were on fire when we left. By now…ashes upon ashes.”

  “Don’t trouble your mind, Jason. You need to keep your head clear.”

  “My head clear,” he said, and something about it sounded choked. His face was still turned toward the mural. His hands gripped the armrests. The knuckles were white. “Ethan,” he said.

  “Yes sir?”

  “I could ask you so many questions. But I know…I wouldn’t be able to understand all the answers. Maybe not any of them. And you might not want to give me the answers, because you realize I—we—are not capable. We’re just children, aren’t we?”

  “Early teens,” Ethan said.

  “I want this country to survive. Christ in Heaven…I want this world to survive.”

  “Jason?” Derryman said. “I think you should—”

  “Be quiet,” the President told him, but gently. “I have heard enough reports.” He turned his chair to peer into the silver eyes, and though the nervous tic still afflicted his face Beale looked calmer, more steady, yet older than he’d been a few moments before. “Tell me exactly why you believe you need to get into S-4.”

  “Jason!” Derryman started to get to his feet, but the President waved any objections aside.

  “This is on my watch, Vance. Mine. I’m sitting in here like a fucking dummy on a ventriloquist’s lap. Sure, I know what the commanders say and about the G-bombs and all the other stuff you bring me, but I have got to do something. So…go ahead, Ethan. Why get into S-4?”

  “I protest this,” said Derryman. “It’s not necessary.”

  “Sit there and be quiet or leave. I mean it, Vance. By God, I mean it. One more word and you’re out the door.”

  Derrym
an said nothing else, but he pressed his fingers to both temples and looked like he wanted to let go a good loud scream.

  “S-4,” the President prompted. “Speak.”

  “As I told you, I’m here to stop this war. I can’t do that alone or unaided. I believe I was brought here to meet you, and to convince you to use your handprint to get me into that facility. Of the artifacts there, something may be of use.”

  “But you can’t be certain of that,” was Beale’s next statement. “Why not?”

  “I can read the human mind and I can sense many things. I am more powerful in my true form than in this one, but I needed the…call it…camouflage, to be able to communicate and move among you. There are many things I know and many things I can do, but one thing I can’t do is read the future. That book is yet to be written.” Ethan paused for the President to fully grasp what he’d just said. “I would tell you, though, that our best chance of stopping this war is not going to be found in commanders’ reports or in G-bombs. It’s going to be in what you would call alien technology. You have proof of the power of that, here in this installation. It’s worth going to the S-4 location to at least let me see what’s there.”

  “Three hours’ flight on the helicopter,” Derryman dared to say, “through skies ruled by the Gorgons and the Cyphers, for the purpose of a fishing trip?” His jutting jaw announced that he was ready for any kind of fight to protect his charge and his territory. “Jason, do you know the risk of that? This…whatever he is…admits the aliens want him dead. They’ll come after the ’copter and swat us down as soon as we get airborne!”

  “They will come after us,” Ethan agreed. “The Cyphers have a tracker in the atmosphere that’s aimed at me. They’ll know when we leave, and they’ll do one of two things: either attack us in the air or follow us to where we’re going. They’ll be curious about our destination, and so will the Gorgons. I believe that may keep them from interfering with the flight.”

  “This is a choice?” Derryman asked bitterly. “I’m not hearing any positives!”