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by Al Macy

  “Okay, back to Cronkite. Was this his attempt to exterminate us? Is he going to try again?”

  “No and no. From what we’ve seen of his technology, he could easily have killed us all.”

  “So why would he only kill some of us?”

  “We have no idea.”

  Jake and Charli looked at one another.

  Hallstrom continued. “We are looking into this and trying to figure out what’s going on. In the meantime we have important, and solvable, issues to deal with. Let me repeat one more time: if we don’t panic, we can get through this. Stay tuned to the emergency alert system. If your power goes out, you can listen from the radio in your car.

  “Thank you and God bless America and Earth.”

  The broadcast ended, and the screen went black.

  “What did you think, Jake?” Charli asked.

  “Not too bad,” he said. “The ‘I’m not a pig expert’ thing was a little surreal, but I think he convinced a lot of people not to panic.”

  “And we’re going to have to keep repeating that, because there are a lot of doomsayers out there.”

  Jake nodded. “Let’s hope they’re wrong.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jake sat alone in the Oval Office, staring at the Seal of the President on the ceiling. He’d been frowning as if trying to remember where he left his keys, but now he relaxed and nodded. She’s conflicted. Undecided. Instead of working on the Cronkite problem, his thoughts had returned to Charli’s behavior on the flight from Mexico. At the start she’d been light and flirtatious with an infectious laugh. At the end she was judgmental and shrewish, like the old woman you wouldn’t want your wife to turn into.

  Ah, I know what’s going on. Her schizo behavior showed she hadn’t decided what she wanted. She was conflicted as to whether she wanted him or not. She’d attracted him and then pushed him away.

  The door to the office opened, and Hallstrom came through it. He strode over and shook Jake’s hand. “It’s good to see you again. Finally.” Hallstrom looked around as if seeing the Oval Office for the first time. “Hey, nice office you have here.”

  Jake smiled. “That was a good press conference, Dane.”

  They walked over to the windows and stood side by side, looking out at the trees.

  “Do you think so?”

  “It couldn’t have gone better.” Jake rubbed the back of his head and looked at Hallstrom. “Do you really think we can avoid a meltdown?”

  “Absolutely. Apart from the huge emotional stress, the problem is so much smaller than people realize. They focus on the decrease in workers, farmers, managers and technicians, and ignore the huge decrease in demand for products and services. We have a big surplus of food in the stores, and refrigerators and freezers are working fine. If there are speed bumps in the recovery, that surplus alone will help us get past them. And we currently have communication, power, and a robust internet.”

  “I actually agree with you.” Jake watched some gardeners tending the grounds. “However, the wildcard is human nature. If enough people are convinced it will be a disaster, it will be. Plus there will be people who will take advantage of the system.”

  Hallstrom put his arm around Jake’s shoulder and walked him over to the couch. “It is good to see you again. We’ve gone through some interesting crises, haven’t we? I haven’t seen you since—”

  Jake pulled away and put up his hand. “Stop. I can’t talk about that.”

  “Jake, my hands were tied. We had to leak that information. The buck stops here, but—”

  “No!”

  “Jake, I have to say it. Personally, you should know that I never authorized the leaking of the information that lead to Mary’s being—”

  “Stop, stop, stop!” Jake shook and was yelling loudly enough that a secret service agent rushed in. “I simply cannot talk about that. I forgive you as much as possible. I still cannot think about it. About what happened. Please, Dane, for my sake, we have to just act as if it never happened. I have to stop right now, or it will kill me. Do you understand?” Jake mimed shooting himself in the head.

  “I understand. I’m sorry. Have they set you up in a bedroom?”

  “Yes, they have. Thank you.” Jake sat on the couch and sighed. An assistant brought in a tray with coffee and two mugs.

  “Charli says that Sophia is a delightful girl. I would like her nanny and her to feel completely at home here. As if she were the daughter I never had. Is that okay with you?”

  “Yes, Dane, that’s thoughtful of you. Thanks.” Jake put a huge amount of cream into his coffee and took a sip.

  “Has she met with the psychologists yet?” Hallstrom took a bite of a biscotti.

  Jake checked his watch. “She’s with them now.”

  “I’m encouraging all my advisers to live here, like a big slumber party.”

  “Like some reality show.”

  “Well, yes,” Hallstrom said.

  “It’s a bit weird, but it might work. If we don’t kill one other.” Once Jake had drunk enough of the coffee that spilling was less likely, he leaned back on the couch and relaxed into it.

  “Weird, huh? Actually seems like one of your ideas.”

  Jake laughed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Let’s talk about the current situation.” Hallstrom was on the other couch, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. “What do you think about the die-off?”

  “Is it really as much as seventy percent?”

  “Yes, that’s the current projection.”

  “You’re right that if we keep our heads we can get through it, but we’re dealing with mass psychology and herd behavior here, and those are pretty inexact sciences. We need a clear advertising campaign pounding away at the message. Put some Madison Avenue types on this. Be relentless. Like ‘Keep calm and carry on.’ It’s even more appropriate here than it was in 1939. People need to keep their heads, and they need to go to work to keep society going. Perhaps the ads can show examples of how things are working.”

  “Yeah, nice idea.”

  Jake took another sip of coffee. “I expect pockets of good and bad. If a few individuals in a city take advantage of the situation, that whole city could be in trouble. I recommend preparing some rapid-response teams that can be sent out to patch problems. Speed is important here.”

  “What about Cronkite?”

  “What about him?” Jake put his cup on the table, poured in some more coffee, and added cream.

  “C’mon, you know what I’m saying.”

  “Just in general, huh? Sorry. I just don’t know what to think at this point. We’re pretty sure he’s behind the die-off, right?”

  “It’s just a guess at this point but a good one. Clear circumstantial evidence. Charli told you about the x-ray things?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Only people with those emitters in their bodies died. Those things were not man-made, so it had to be Cronkite. And of course it fits in with the crop-dusting idea.”

  Jake looked up at the ceiling and scratched under his chin. “We’ve got four issues. Die-off, Cronkite, sneeze-pain, and bad witch. Five if you include DJ1.”

  “In that order?”

  “Yes. Cronkite is more important, but in the short term, we’ve got to deal with the die-off.”

  “Do you think there’s a bad witch coming?” Hallstrom asked.

  “Maybe not. That’s definitely low priority. If there’s a bad witch coming, and its tech is as advanced as Cronkite’s, we probably can’t do anything about it. To run away would be the best strategy, but how would we do that? Hey, did Charli tell you about those twins?”

  “Yes. The Carter twins.” The president sat back and crossed his legs. “We have a helicopter out looking for them right now. They are on some kind of canoe trip. Let’s hope they are alive. Do you think the plans are that important? Can we put those on the back burner?”

  Jake sipped his coffee, put it on the table, and shook his head. “No, they cou
ld be important. We are out of our league when dealing with these aliens, whether one, two, or three civilizations.”

  “Three?”

  “Cronkite, DJ1, and Bad Witch.”

  “Okay, right. Up to three.”

  “So if we’re going to be forced to play in their league, we want some of their tools.”

  “If we had to fight Cronkite, why would he give us his tools?” Hallstrom asked.

  “Either he’s genuine, and he’s going to help us fight the bad witch, or there’s no bad witch and he doesn’t think we’ll fight him. Maybe the tools aren’t weapons at all. Or there’s something entirely different …”

  “Yeah, but if he’s genuine—”

  Jake put up his hand and closed his eyes. Nope, gone. “Shoot, I had an idea, but now it’s gone. I must be getting old. It’ll come to me.” Jake looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go pick up Sophia.”

  “Jake, I’m glad to have you on the team. Welcome back.” He slapped him on the back as they stood up.

  “Now, hold on, I’m not back for good, just for this crisis. But I have to admit, it feels good to do a little problem solving.”

  They shook hands again, and Jake headed off to the room where Sophia was talking with the psychologists.

  * * *

  June 13, 2018

  Alex led his mute, zombie-like brother back to the raft. Martin’s arm looked like it had two elbows. “Okay, new plan. We splint this thing up, and I’ll swim to the island and canoe back here with the first aid kit. Then we’ll get the hell out of Dodge. Sound good?”

  Martin answered by vomiting. He sat down heavily on the logs of the raft and stared straight ahead. Alex got him back up and lead him to their sheltered debris bed. Alex held his hand. Cool and clammy. An ominous sign of shock.

  Neither of the twins had had first aid training, but they had no trouble splinting the arm. With some of the tent fabric strips that they’d used to hold the raft together, Alex immobilized the forearm against three sticks. He got Martin settled in the debris bed with his feet elevated. He put the canteen, which had been securely fastened to the raft, within easy reach.

  “Okay, Bro, I won’t be long. As soon as I get to the camp on the island, I’ll grab all the first aid supplies and come right back. I’m sure we have some major-league painkillers there, plus a good supply of food, so hang in there.”

  “Stretch. Drink.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got to stretch to prevent cramping.” Martin continued to stare straight ahead.

  “Got it. Will do.” Cold water, fatigue, dehydration, and a probable electrolyte deficit meant that cramps would be a major hurdle. Alex drank half the remaining water, did a full set of stretches, gave his brother one more “Hang in there,” and jogged down to water. He wasted no time, waded in, and started swimming. The fog had lifted enough that he could just make out the tops of the trees on the island.

  He started off with a slow freestyle stroke but soon switched to his preferred side-stroke. How did real swimmers keep a freestyle stroke going for so long? After only thirty minutes the island and his starting point seemed about equidistant, and he’d become accustomed to the cold water. It looked like this was going to work.

  His relief was short-lived, however. Pain flashed up from his calf. He cried out. A massive cramp. He grabbed his leg and massaged it, drifting below the surface. That helped a bit. He surfaced and looked around. The fog was even thicker than before. He squinted and strained his eyes. There was no variation in the gray mist. Nothing in any direction. By slipping below the surface and massaging his calf, he’d lost all sense of his heading.

  Don’t panic. He treaded water. Wait! A faint line of swirls in the water extended from him. Ah, that showed where he’d come from. He continued on, intentionally splashing the water and leaving a trail of “crumbs.” That should prevent him from swimming in circles. He stopped occasionally and massaged his cramping leg.

  The swim went on forever. Twice more his cramping pulled him underwater, and each time he came up disoriented. Was he headed off in a new direction? Swimming in circles? Had him missed the island? Panic infected his breathing. Something smashed into his foot. A shark? No, of course not. It was a rock or submerged log. A signal of the end of his ordeal—he’d arrived at the island. He hadn’t seen it because his sidestroke kept him facing away from the shore.

  He stopped swimming and sunk his feet into muddy bottom. He stood in water up to his waist and trudged toward toward shore. The canoes were close by.

  “Hello! Anybody here?” No responses. He jogged to the camp and looked in each tent. Nothing but the same mummified bodies he’d already seen.

  No time to be horrified, and he definitely wouldn’t be making any funeral pyres. In fact, he unceremoniously jerked the sleeping bags off his dead friends like a magician pulling the tablecloth out from under a table setting. He looted the contents of all the tents and wolfed down some granola bars and two electrolyte drinks. Next he consolidated the gear into the largest canoe. Brad’s cell phone had no service, but a GPS device was still working. He packed a total of three first aid kits and three paddles including a long kayak-style double paddle which he would need since Martin would be strictly cargo.

  One more look around, and he was off, straining with each stroke of the double paddle. The fog had lifted completely, giving a clear view of the shore where Martin waited. Getting to Martin had a higher priority than saving his strength, and he powered his way back.

  He beached the canoe and grabbed a sixteen-ounce Gatorade and two first aid kits. He sprinted to the debris bed. Martin was only barely conscious. Alex shook him hard and yelled “Martin!” There was more vomit among the leaves of the bed.

  “Are we there yet?” Martin grabbed Alex’s arm with his left and looked at his splinted arm as if seeing it for the first time.

  “Everything’s good, Bro.” Alex made him drink the Gatorade. Martin’s arm had swollen to twice its normal size. Alex opened the largest first aid kit and pulled out three instant cold packs. He activated each one by smashing it with his fist and arrayed them on Martin’s forearm. He ran back to the canoe and brought back a large, old-style sleeping bag. He unzipped it and tucked it around Martin.

  Next was pain relief. He looked through the two first aid kits and found only aspirin, Advil, and Tylenol. Damn! He raced back to the canoe, brought back the third kit and opened it. Bingo. Vicodin. Apparently Rebecca’s dad, Steve, had some left over from a prescription, and he had wisely added it to the first aid kit. Thank you, Steve! The instructions called for one to two tablets every four hours, as needed. Should he up the dosage to three or four? No. A serious side effect could be worse than having Martin under-dosed. Alex gave him two pills, leaving eight more in the prescription bottle.

  The next valuable finds were two waterproof books, a Pocket Guide to Emergency First Aid, and a Pocket Guide to Outdoor Survival. Alex got a fire started and speed-read the sections on shock, injuries, and navigation. Martin had displayed all the classic symptoms of shock. The guide explained only what to do until the ambulance arrived, but it might be days before he could get Martin to a hospital.

  When the cooking fire was ready, Alex combined the freeze-dried chicken soup with two packets of chicken stew, and the boys shoveled bites into their mouths. Mentally, Martin had made a miraculous recovery. All hints of confusion were gone. Alex would have liked a night of rest, but getting medical care was the highest priority, so they decided to leave immediately.

  Alex arranged a bed in the bottom of the canoe, and it looked pretty cozy. Everything stowed and tied in securely, they took off for their original campsite, where Alex loaded more supplies and changed into their own clothing. The GPS device was low on batteries but clearly showed a crumb-trail which would guide them back to their original debarkation site.

  The only obstacle they could see was a two mile portage that they would hit in the middle of the second day. That was a bridge they’d cross w
hen they got to it.

  Everything went smoothly until the morning of day two. They’d made good progress on their first afternoon, aided by a tailwind. They found a good campsite and slept well. Martin said the pain was worse. No side effects so far. Alex upped the dosage to three Vicodin at a time.

  The GPS ran out of batteries at ten o’clock, and the wind shifted so that they were traveling into it. It got strong enough that Alex couldn’t make headway, and they were being driven back. He couldn’t afford to stop paddling, since the wind could turn the canoe broadside, push them harder, and even capsize them. It was at this low point that Martin yelled out.

  “Helicopter!”

  “You see one?” replied Alex.

  “No I hear it. Just barely. Flare gun.”

  The flare gun was in the canoe somewhere. Where was it? He searched desperately, stopping occasionally to paddle into the wind. There! A bright orange gun that looked like a toy, with the large first aid kit. It had a pack of six flares attached to it, and he wasted no time in loading a cartridge, pointing it up, and pulling the trigger. Nothing happened.

  “You have to cock it, Einstein.”

  “Yeah, duh.” This time Alex pulled the hammer back, held up his arm, and tried again. A beautiful orange flare soared up into the sky and hung there. “Do you still hear the helicopter? I never heard it. Are you sure that’s what it was?”

  “Absolutely. But I don’t hear it right now.” Martin cocked his head and shielded his ear from the wind.

  Alex paddled lightly, just enough to keep the wind coming head on, and they both stared as if in a trance, straining their ears. “There! I hear it.” He reached down, grabbed the gun, and shot off a second flare.

  The beat of the helicopter was unmistakable now. “I see it!” Alex said.

  It was heading toward them. A beautiful sight, not only because they were being rescued, but because it confirmed that not everyone had been turned into mummies.

  The helicopter arrived and hovered high enough over them to prevent the backwash from capsizing the canoe. The PA system was clear.