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by Al Macy

  The teenagers fanned out. Of course I don’t have a plan. Poor Mike was never very smart, but he’s a great guy. A great great-grandson.

  Tattoo Boy, the same one from the other barricade, jogged up the entrance ramp. He still had his shotgun. She took careful aim. If anyone deserves to die …

  No! She shifted her aim to the abandoned Volvo he was passing and squeezed the trigger. The car’s side window shattered. The boy dropped his gun. His legs started to buckle, but instead of falling he reversed direction. He looked as if he were doing some kind of panicky soft-shoe dance and then took off toward town. He kept running. He had to hold up his super-low-rise jeans with one hand.

  Well, at least I haven’t become a cold-blooded killer. The other teens watched him depart and stopped their advance. Marie put one shot close to each kid. Let them consider their mortality. She pulled out the gun’s magazine and weighed it in her hand. About five shots more. Time to go.

  Marie patted the horse. “You were a good horse, Clyde. Thank you.” She got into a crouch and rushed off into the dense forest by the highway. I am definitely too old for this. Once into the trees, she turned and fired one more round then continued on. They could easily travel three times as fast as she. Maybe the threat of an ambush would slow them down.

  If only there were a strategy that included resting or even taking a nap. Then she saw it. A large tree had blown over, and the depression the root ball had left behind was filled with leaves. She looked back to make sure none of the kids could see her then pushed away the leaves and lay face down. She reached back and pulled leaves and branches over her. Camo clothing would have been nice, but her dark green sweater and brown pants blended in well enough. Now to stay completely still. That was something she could do.

  Three teenagers soon came within earshot. They made no attempt to be quiet.

  “I tell you, it was an old lady.”

  “Yeah, right. An old lady with an assault rifle. Maybe she has an attack pussycat with her. Hold on. I gotta take a leak.”

  Not here, please! Marie kept her breaths shallow. The smell of cigarette smoke merged with the scent of leaf mold.

  He peed into the leaves near her feet. An insect crawled on her neck. If he looked down, he’d be sure to see her. He finished and zipped up. “John said to come back with that rifle or don’t come back at all. I say fuck it.”

  “I’d say that, too, but it’s just a little old lady. If we catch her, that rifle …”

  The voices faded into the distance. Marie slapped the bug on her neck and sucked in lungfuls of moldy air. Then she fell asleep.

  She awoke with a start. The three-quarter moon was high in the sky, and the sounds of crickets and katydids filled the forest. How long had she slept? Fourteen hours? She got up and made her way to the edge of the forest, taking a small drink of water from a creek. Giardia be damned.

  She moved east and kept under cover until she was well away from Boys Town. Then back to the highway and on toward the airport. Nine miles to go. That was doable. No rush now. She’d read The Long Walk about some escaped prisoners who walked from Siberia to India. But they weren’t eighty-one.

  At dawn she saw something moving on the highway. Two cyclists coming her way. She took cover behind an abandoned camper, and waited for them to pass. When they went by, she jumped out.

  “Mike!”

  He put on the brakes. “Nana!”

  He let the bike fall and ran over and hugged her, lifting her into the air. “Great-uncle Sam got on a plane to France. He’s going to be okay.” They brought each other up to date. Mike introduced Cheryl, who had ridden her sister to the evacuation point.

  Marie drank an entire water bottle, hopped on the bike trailer, and they headed into the sunrise.

  * * *

  January 15, 2019

  With a crunch, the 3D printer turned another promising device to scrap. Five months since they’d built the first printer, the twins sweated in the small aircraft hangar devoted to their work. Alex threw his clipboard onto the workbench and stomped out the door into the blinding sunshine of Edwards Air Force Base. He sat on the picnic table where he and his brother spent every lunch break. Martin came out and sat next to him. They both stared out at the dry lake bed. Alex tugged on his aquamarine hair and Martin did the same with his magenta locks.

  After two minutes, Alex said, “Damn it. I thought we had it. I hate El Exigente.”

  Martin nodded.

  El Exigente was the name they’d given to the Series Five 3D printer. El Exigente: The Demanding One. It demanded perfection for everything it produced. If a device differed from the plan in any way, EE crushed it. Even a change in color would trigger a destruction order.

  This was a problem for the twins. They needed to modify some of the devices.

  EE was the fifth generation 3D printer. Each generation of printer had been used to build the next, and EE was the top of the line. It resembled an iridescent submarine, out of place in a desert aircraft hangar.

  The twins had inferred that each plan included a quality-assurance checksum. EE would compare that number with that of the final result and destroy the output if the numbers did not match. They worked on four strategies for defeating this. First, find the stored checksum and change it. Second, modify EE to accept an invalid checksum or bypass its entire quality assurance routine. Third, physically modify EE so that it would be unable to destroy the rejects and fourth, rescue the non-compliant devices before the printer could destroy them.

  Today the twins were working on strategy number four. They’d developed a gun that, like a chameleon, would shoot a sticky tongue at the device and at the last minute, pull it out of the path of EE’s destructive hammer. It wasn’t working.

  Martin clapped his brother on the back, and the two of them trudged into the dim hangar. Back to work.

  * * *

  June 3, 2019

  Winter turned to spring then summer and the world still had an “alien problem.”

  The situation room of the White House showed no evidence of the EMP-like event. All new equipment had been installed. In the nine months since E-Day, much of the country’s electronic infrastructure had been rebuilt. Several companies had produced power substation kits that could be shipped to a location and set up in a matter of days.

  Jake leaned back in his chair. On the one-year anniversary of Cronkite’s original appearance, the alien had promised an important announcement. They’d heard nothing from him for months. Could Cronkite be some kind of hibernator, going into suspended animation for long periods of time?

  Jake looked over at Charli. She’d broken off their relationship, saying she wanted to wait until the current world situation was resolved. There’s something wrong with her. The spark was in there somewhere, but she acted as if his personality flaws made him an untouchable. Can’t argue with that, really.

  Estimates put the deaths indirectly caused by the EMP-like event at around fifteen-thousand. Not as bad as he’d originally thought. Hitler had killed seventeen million and Mao Zedong had killed seventy-eight million. He’d looked it up. He wasn’t in their league, but still. Stop. Cronkite was the one responsible, not me.

  “Earth calling Jake.” Charli poked his shoulder and pointed to the screen. She treated him cordially. They had to work together.

  Jake pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded. Showtime.

  Cronkite was sitting behind a huge desk wearing a military uniform covered with medals. A seal behind him read “The United World States of Cronkite.” This was not a good sign. Literally.

  “Greetings, people of Earth.” Cronkite, in his human representation, of course, had his hands folded in front of him. “I have been observing you for many years and interacting with you during our year together. I have taken pity on you and have decided that you are incapable of governing yourselves. I’m sure many of you have come to the same conclusion.

  He pouted and tilted his head, staring into the camera.

  “I
know, I know.” He closed his eyes, nodded, and patted the air with one hand. “There are those among you who will not welcome this change.” His eyes snapped open and he spoke faster. “Do you really think that I had any choice … huh?”

  Jake scratched his chin. Mood shift time. Here we go.

  “What would you do? Did you see the way your world’s number-one troubleshooter, Jake Corby, acted? I mean, come on, people, throw me a frickin’ bone here, okay?” Cronkite was out of his chair, half standing, with his hands on the table. “What the hell … am I supposed to do?”

  Jake showed no reaction to this, and no one looked over at him.

  Cronkite sat back down and took a deep breath. “To my ardent followers, the Cronkites and those of you who are silent Cronkites in your hearts, I tell you that you have seen the way. I commend you on your perspicacity. You will be rewarded. Please continue to spread the word … our word.” His tone was now that of a preacher and he looked around as if addressing a sea of followers.

  “You may ask, ‘Cronkite, how will this change affect me? How will it change … my life?’ That is an excellent question. At first, you will hardly notice anything. Life will go on as it has. What were nations will now be states under one nation, The United World States of Cronkite. Headed by the world’s most benevolent dictator.” He pointed to his chest and mouthed the word “me.”

  There was absolute silence in the situation room.

  “There will be some changes that may be painful, but you will thank me for them later. We will all speak but one language. Think of the benefits of that. There will be only one religion, the Church of Cronkite.

  “Most changes will be welcomed by all. There will be no wars. Wars are hereby illegal. Anyone engaging in armed conflict will be executed. Any nation initiating aggression will be annihilated. Every citizen within its borders will die. That’ll put the kibosh on that war silliness.

  “Devices will be standardized. You know how some battery chargers blink green while charging then turn solid green when done? Others are red while charging, and the light goes off when the batteries are charged. Others … grrr … well, soon they will all work the same way.”

  Charli’s jaw dropped. Guccio shook his head.

  “And famine will be eliminated. You may have benefited from this already. I have reduced the human population without killing off the animals or plants. Yes, yes, that is an example of something that was painful, but I’m sure that by now you have all recognized its value. Yes, you have lost loved ones, but with that brilliant step, I have more than doubled the food supply.”

  Cronkite brightened, as if he’d forgotten something. “Oh, yes. And in the next few years, we will be starting a selective breeding system, insuring a gradual improvement in the quality of your race.

  “I am sure you are all excited about this new journey we are embarking on together. After thousands of years of fumbling around like virgins on prom night, you are about to be lead on an exciting new path.

  “So now, from your supreme and immortal leader, I bid you farewell. Have a nice day.”

  The screen went to black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  June 5, 2019

  Jake watched the president take a sip of his coffee and look out the window of the Treaty Room. Hallstrom scheduled a private meeting with one of his advisers every day, and today was Jake’s turn.

  Hallstrom laughed. “And how about the part about the battery charger lights?”

  Jake was trying to get comfortable in an antique chair. “Right. It’s as if he put that in just to show us that he’s still crazy. He does have a point, though.”

  Hallstrom came back from the window and sat across from Jake. “What do you mean?”

  “Humans aren’t good at making sure things are standardized. There are millions of examples, but perhaps the best is the metric versus the English system. Many mechanics need to have two full sets of wrenches on hand, and on every job have to first figure out which—”

  “So you’re saying Cronkite’s takeover could be—”

  “No, I’m just saying that the battery charger thing makes a valid point. Sometimes an outside point of view can show us problems we have trouble seeing ourselves,” Jake said.

  Hallstrom set his coffee down and put his elbows on his knees. “Do you think he really could take control?”

  “He has the technology to do it, but he’s certainly not winning our hearts and minds, kooks aside.”

  “The Cronkites,” Hallstrom said.

  “Right.”

  They both turned as Guccio walked in holding up an envelope by its corner. “Mail for Jake Corby.”

  Jake and Hallstrom stared at him.

  “I have here a weird envelope addressed to you, Jake.” Guccio placed the mail on the coffee table. It was light blue and had a shimmering, almost glowing surface. “I had an FBI technician look it over, and he gave you the okay to look at what’s inside.”

  The envelope had “Personal and Confidential” written on the front. Jake used a letter opener to cut it open and slide out the card.

  The front had “You’re Invited!” in an informal font. He opened it and the three of them read it.

  Sir Cronkite requests the pleasure of your company for a short joyride in the sphere

  on June the eighth

  at ten o’clock in the morning.

  Please stand alone by the Fort Washington Lighthouse.

  Casual attire

  Thank you for not bringing weapons.

  Sir Cronkite’s Sphere is a non-smoking environment.

  * * *

  June 6, 2019

  Jake sank into the deep cushions of the couch in the Oval Office and sighed. “I guess you guys know, since I requested this meeting without Charli, what I want to talk about.” He looked at Hallstrom and Guccio, both of whom appeared more serious than usual.

  Guccio said, “You want to be a suicide bomber.”

  “Right, but you know it’s not going to work,” Jake said.

  “Correct. It’s hard to imagine that Cronkite would be that stupid. He’s got to know that we’ll try to hit him.” Hallstrom stood up, paced over to the windows, and looked out.

  “Well, there are two reasons to think he could be that stupid.” Jake rolled his shoulders.

  “The slip-up at Meet the Press.” Hallstrom continued gazing out the window.

  “Right, when he unintentionally admitted to culling us. It was dumb.”

  “Yes.” Guccio tapped his pen against his nose. “But that was more of a slip of the tongue thing than an intelligence issue. He has had plenty of time to think about this meeting.”

  “Agreed. But the second thing is that the guy’s a little off.” Jake whirled his finger next to his ear.

  “A little?” said the president, walking back and sitting on the couch again.

  “Plus,” Jake said, “he’s got this weird fixation on me.”

  Guccio stopped tapping. “So you’re saying love is blind.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Maybe he wants you to die but at our hands,” Hallstrom said.

  “That could be. But let me tell you why I called this meeting.” Jake paused. “I don’t want you to feel bad about this. No one knows, of course, but since Mary died …”

  Hallstrom started to speak, but Jake held up his hand. He continued, “Since Mary died, I’ve wished I was dead. Were dead. Whatever. Almost all the time. I’ve spent some time with a gun in my mouth. Something kept me from doing it, but I would have welcomed the chance to die.”

  “Until recently.” Guccio said.

  Jake frowned and said nothing.

  “Until Sophia and Charli.” Hallstrom said.

  Jake nodded. “It sucks, doesn’t it? I was all ready to die, eager even, and now, when I want to live …”

  The three of them sat silently.

  “If it makes you feel any better, you’ll have Sophia to carry on.” Hallstrom said.

  “What do you mean
? She’s my goddaughter, not my daughter.”

  Hallstrom and Guccio looked at each other. Hallstrom spoke, his voice gentle. “Jake, Sophia is your daughter.”

  “No, she’s my goddaughter, not my daughter, she’s my …” Jake froze. Mary had just died. Renata was in the midst of her divorce. She was comforting him. One thing lead to another. Just that one time. He stood up. He was shaking. He paced around the room. “You had us tested? Why?”

  “Charli noticed the resemblance. You’ve never seen it?”

  Jake shook his head.

  Hallstrom continued. “It’s not your looks. It’s your mannerisms. The way you look when you’re frustrated, for example. Don’t be angry. We thought it would be good to know, if it ever came to this … this situation.”

  “Does Charli know?”

  “She suspects. She brought it up, as I said, but she doesn’t know the results of the tests. She doesn’t even know that we ran them.”

  “Well.” Jake looked at both of them, a sad smile on his face. “Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?”

  * * *

  June 8, 2019

  In the White House Situation Room, Charli chewed her lip and looked at the feeds from Fort Washington Park. Jake appeared in six different views on four different monitors. The quality and number of video feeds made the Super Bowl seem like it was shot with a handheld super-8 film camera. Jake himself was wired with multiple mics, including one that was surgically implanted in the back of his left earlobe. He’d drawn the line at a rectal microphone, suggesting that the technicians shove it up their own asses.

  He also had an earpiece that let his controllers talk to him.

  He looks lonely. Everyone within three miles had been evacuated, except for some soldiers manning ground-to-ground weapons across the Potomac.

  “How many planes do we have there right now?” Charli looked to Guccio.

  “Well, it depends on how you define ‘there.’ Overhead we have six drones ranging in altitude from a few thousand feet to five miles. Then we have seven fighters flying in a racetrack pattern, such that there is one almost directly overhead at any given second. In addition, we have tankers—”