by Munson, Brad
“Listen to me! Listen to me, you—” The Chairman stopped short, his eyes going wide with surprise. “Chandler?” he asked, suddenly quiet. “Chandler, are you … did you … did you hang up on me, you little shit?”
The Chairman reared back, still staring at the monitors that showed him the satellite control room at Edwards. It had no audio. They’d never bothered to activate it; too much trouble.
There was Chandler, in his beautifully tailored uniform. Not a hair out of place. There he was peeling the headset off and dropping it to the floor with shaking fingers.
“Son of a bitch,” The Chairman said. “Son of a bitch.”
The feed from the corridor just outside the satellite room was available as well. It was clear what the invaders were up to. Even at a distance, even through a grainy trans-continental video feed, it was easy to identify a block of C-4 as it was being wired to the door’s hinges.
“Fucking idiot,” The Chairman muttered. They watched the monitors together after that, without another word, as Chandler walked across the room, heading towards the door. As the broad-chested soldier, the leader of the U.S. incursion team, gave the signal for detonation. As—
Finnegan heard himself gasp as the explosive detonated, the door flew free, and their man at Edwards was crushed into paste. “Shit,” he said under his breath, as the squad leader and his last two men strolled into the satellite control center. “We lost it.”
The Chairman shook his head. “No,” he said. He was waggling it back and forth like a stubborn dog. “No, no, no.” They watched as the team leader said something to the awestruck technicians. As he raised an arm and pointed at the dead RSA colonel. “No,” The Chairman said one final time.
The Chairman tapped out a series of five strokes – precisely five, Finnegan counted – on his console’s keyboard. He would remember that for the rest of his life. The Chairman’s manicured index finger hovered over the RETURN key.
“If I can’t have them,” The Chairman said, “no one can.”
He tapped on the key with a feather’s weight of pressure:
Tap.
*****
Stone half-expected one of the satellite techs to pull out a pistol and shoot him dead. As he walked into the room, he tried to look everywhere at once, and listened intently for a call from either of his men, shouting out the presence of a gun.
No one moved. No one spoke. The room was almost preternaturally quiet. All he heard was the distant, grinding moan of the infected, still battering on the distant entrance door, trying to get in.
He took a breath. “My name is Stone,” he said. Loud and slow, just as he’d rehearsed it. “I represent the United States of America. We’re here to take back what’s ours.”
The technicians still did not speak. Two of them blinked. The rest didn’t even seem to be breathing. Finally one man – an older fellow with horn-rimmed glasses, wearing a short-sleeved, very white shirt, cleared his throat, and spoke without moving. “Um … so are we.”
“No,” Stone said, shaking he head. “You’re not. You’re RSA.”
Now it was Horn-Rims who was shaking his head, very carefully. His eyes never left the sidearm in Stone’s hand. “No. We’re not. We are technicians working for the United States. We are responsible for keeping the military and intelligence satellites functional during the crisis. We—”
He finally moved his head. He looked at the other men and women in the room. “We’re the good guys.”
Stone didn’t know what to say. He suddenly, almost painfully, understood what had happened. Why the base had been turned against the U.S. so quickly and easily.
“You were lied to,” he said, and holstered his weapon. He pointed at the smashed remains of the RSA leader who had been crushed by the door. “He lied to you. A renegade branch of the government, traitors, took control of Edwards months ago. They’ve been fighting the U.S. Army and the President since the outbreak began. Fighting for control.”
“Oh,” said an Asian woman halfway across the room. “That explains so much.”
Stone turned to her and cocked his head.
“We couldn’t get hold of anyone else,” she said. “Anywhere. We thought it was just the infected, but we – most of us – some of us – didn’t think we could be the only base left. And if we were, why were we bothering to keep the satlinks working? Why …? Yes. Yes. I understand now.”
Stone looked at his team members and motioned at them. They lowered their guns, looking relieved. “Okay. Okay. Then it’s good news all around. I’m in touch with the Army right now, they’re talking in my ear as we speak. They can hear you. And they’re telling me to welcome you all. Welcome to—”
*****
In that instant, The Chairman activated his “back-up.” With a single keystroke, he detonated a ten-kiloton nuclear bomb that had been packed inside the silver trunk he had air-dropped to Chandler weeks before.
The world ended for Stone, his team, the techs, and all of Edwards Air Force Base in a soundless blast of endless white light.
*****
The screens from Edwards all went white in the same awful instant – at McCoy, at McChord, in Omaha, in Mount Weather. Everywhere.
McCoy was the first place to truly understand what had happened. “Nuclear detonation,” a faceless voice said from across the Situation Room. “Video and seismic data confirms. Estimated ten—”
“Shut up,” Bentley said. “Just … shut up.”
Mbutu Ngasy simply stared at the screen. He could not think. He could not comprehend what he had seen. “Stone ...” he said. “Allen. All those people ...”
The speaker mounted on the wall crackled to life, and the ragged, blurred voice of Adan Forrest grated in the cold, still air. “Shock wave from the southwest,” Forrest said. “I think—”
“Acknowledged, Colonel Forrest,” the radio operator said, holding back tears. “We know.”
“What—”
“Just get home,” Bentley said. “Just tell him … get home.”
There was a choking sound, a strange, deep, grunting sound behind Mbutu. He heard a body thump to the floor, an unexpectedly awkward sound, and he turned to see the Vice President sprawled on the polished linoleum, his carefully groomed hair pushed out of shape. His face was flaccid and grey. Three men were bending over him, moving urgently, muttering to each other.
“Mr. Vice President?” one of them said, his voice sharp and almost desperate. The politician didn’t respond, didn’t move at all.
“Mister Vice President!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Take that, you fiend! Take it! Die, die, die!”
The mighty sword of Mark Stiles hacked into the warty shoulder of the orc, and purple grue spewed in every direction. He hauled it free, spun it in his massive fist and slashed with blinding speed, filleting the snaggled-toothed creature as it bellowed with rage and pain and collapsed, writhing, into an oily, over-muscled heap.
“My hero,” Rebecca said, her eyelids fluttering.
“Damn straight,” he said, and sighed with deep satisfaction. Exhausted, he passed the controller to the next guy in line, leaned back in his well-worn armchair, and luxuriated in the afterglow of his first World of Warcraft session in over a year.
“Boyd, my brother,” he said into his headset. “I don’t care what anybody says. You’re my hero.”
“What?” said the voice in his ear, and over the battered speakers wired into the game room at Stiles. “Well, goddamn it straight to hell, man. I was trying to be nice! What does everybody say?” The computer geek back in Omaha sounded absolutely crushed.
Rebecca plucked the headset off her boyfriend’s head and spoke into it with professionally soothing tones. “He’s just kidding, Boyd,” she crooned. “Everybody likes you. Loves you. And we’re all very grateful for the hook-up.”
&nb
sp; “God’s truth,” Stiles said, and took Rebecca’s hand in his own. He mouthed “Thanks,” and she smiled and waved it away. “You the man,” he said more loudly to Boyd. “When I get back to Omaha, you and I are going to have a knock-down, drag-out that will go on four hours, man. Just you and me, right in the same room. What do you say to that?”
“Done and done,” the boy-man in far-off Omaha said, sounding absolutely ecstatic with himself.
Weird phrase, Stiles said, but okay. “Count on it,” he said aloud.
Nobody was listening to him. The game had passed to the next patient player in line, and now Stiles and Rebecca could do nothing but drown their nostalgic sorrows in the best moonshine ever invented.
Truly, Stiles thought, he had never expected to play Warcraft again. He’d fallen in love with the online game when Blizzard had first released it, and when the internet came crashing down in the midst of the zombie apocalypse, his first thought – well, his second thought, actually, after he’d come to believe he might live through the end of the world – was about his Warcraft character, Thangwar the Unfathomable, and how he was lost forever. Then Boyd, his new best friend in the whole world, had managed to set up a tiny little makeshift version of the internet that connected Omaha, New Abraham, and a couple other very lucky little settlements, and WoW was back.
“Maybe there is hope for the world,” he told his girl.
“You never can tell,” she said.
They slipped away from the raucous shouting and sweaty redolence of the game room and re-emerged into the only slightly less noisy and fragrant main hall of Eileen’s place. It had been an eventful week in many ways, Stiles thought, and a good one in many ways. But he was glad they were going home tomorrow morning. Omaha might not be nearly as exciting as New Abraham, the occasional sprinter invasion aside, but it was home, and he missed it.
Stiles scooped up two last shots of ‘shine from the bar and leaned across it to get the mistress of the tavern’s attention. “These’ll be our last rounds, Eileen,” he told her, and he didn’t have to fake the tragic disappointment in his voice. “We’re out of here tomorrow morning. So what do we owe you?”
“Other than your firstborn?” she said, straight-faced.
“Oh, please no!” Rebecca said, her hand melodramatically at her throat. “Not that! Besides, I owe him to General Sherman already.”
That made Stiles spit ‘shine all over his shirt. It took them both a moment to recover, laughing like maniacs.
“You don’t owe me a damn thing, boy,” Eileen said. “You and yours have done great things for this town. Trust me, you’ll never have to buy a drink in this place. Ever.”
He thanked her, quite sincerely, and the two of them retreated to their favorite spot: a poorly lit booth in the quietest corner of New Abraham’s only tavern. Sheriff Keaton would be joining them soon for a farewell drink. He and Brenda were supervising the final packing of Jose’s converted eighteen-wheeler; by tomorrow at sunrise it would packed front to back and top to bottom with carefully padded chicken eggs, along with a few hundred pounds of freshly dressed breasts, thighs, and drumsticks as a bonus.
“It’ll be good to get home,” he said as they settled in.
“Very,” she said. “These are good people, but I miss the doctor. And the work. And that special stink we call ‘Omaha.’”
He grinned and raised his glass. “Here’s to it,” he said, and they both sipped a bit.
Rebecca looked thoughtful as she lowered her carriage glass. “You know,” she said, so quietly it was barely audible above the rich murmur of the tavern, “I never thought I could be happy again.”
Stiles looked at her frankly. He had just enough brains not to say anything – yet.
“I mean, after Cairo. After Ramage. After I … after all of it, Mark. I didn’t think it was possible.” She took another sip, more for something to do than for the taste of it. “So I ... I just wanted to thank you, that’s all. For bringing me back to life.”
Stiles nodded and thought very hard for a while, toying with his glass and looking deep into the last half-inch of silvery liquid. “You know,” he said finally, “There’s a terrible shortage of ministers in Omaha.”
Rebecca’s brows creased “What?”
He shrugged lightly. “You know: Ministers. Pastors. Priests. Far as I know, not a single one in town yet.”
Rebecca, caught off-guard by the notion, gave it some thought. “I think you’re right. I suppose being a non-violent man of the cloth isn’t a survival trait anymore.”
“Guess not.” He drained the last of his glass, stalling as long as he could. “But I guess we don’t really need one, do we?”
She still wasn’t getting it. “Do we?”
“I mean, we could make up our own. Just kind of ordain somebody, set ‘em up. Lots of empty churches back home. Some great architecture. Nice kitchens.”
“Mark, what the hell are you talking about?”
Stiles wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand, suddenly all nerves. He felt some stubble on his chin and wished he’d had the presence of mind to shave that morning. It seemed important now, for some reason. “Rebecca,” he said. “I’m not kidding. I swear I’m not, so … don’t laugh.”
“Okay ...” She was looking at him gently, searchingly. She has absolutely no clue, he thought. And that terrified him.
“Rebecca … would you marry me?”
She just stared at him. Blank-faced. Wide-eyed. The picture of wordless astonishment. After a very long time – at least a year, by Stiles’ own estimation – she took a breath and blinked. “Notice,” she said, “I am not laughing.”
“No, you’re not,” he allowed. “You’re also not answering.”
She looked down at her glass, deep in thought. “Well,” she said. “Well ...”
She looked up. There were tears in her eyes. They made her beautiful blue irises even bigger and more luminous, and Stiles found himself falling in love with her all over again.
“Yes, Mark,” she said. “Yes, I will.”
She leaned forward and gave him the best kiss he had experienced in at least a thousand years. When they parted, finally, there was a massive shadow looming over them.
“So he finally did it,” Keaton said, grinning ear to ear.
“Finally,” Rebecca said, sounding terribly relieved. “I thought he’d never get around to it.”
Stiles gaped. His mouth opened and closed and then opened again. Both Keaton and Rebecca burst into laughter at the sheer astonishment there, and Keaton clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, boy,” he said. “Let me buy you your first drink as a fee-on-say.”
*****
Keaton talked to Stiles and Rebecca about nothing in particular and everything in general for over an hour, and as the crowd at Eileen’s finally started to thin, he got down to business. “So,” he said, trying not to smack his lips at the sharp, welcome taste of the ‘shine, “the eggs are padded and packed. We all made sure of that before we came on over.” He cocked his head to the right, where Jose Arctura, Brenda Long, and Jose’s lovely daughter Adelina sat and enjoyed drinks of their own. Adelina cast a thoughtful eye towards them and nodded slowly. “The chicken will be packed in ice and added at the last minute, just before you take off. We’re figuring departure time right after sunrise tomorrow, so you have a full day’s light to make your way home.”
He saw Stiles smile at the word. “Yeah,” he said. “That’ll be good. Love your little town, here, Sheriff, but I’ll be glad to get back.”
The door to the tavern opened and Tanner Whitehead, wrapped in a heavy lamb’s wool jacket, stepped inside. He stopped and scanned the room carefully, and Keaton immediately knew why: He was checking for his buddies, his allies, before he took his back away from the wall.
Apparently he was satisfied with what he saw. Keaton had taken the same
headcount when he’d entered; he knew exactly how many of Whitehead’s loyal opposition was ranged around the room, nursing drinks and waiting.
I knew this was going to happen, Keaton told himself, though I’m sure not looking forward to it. Sometimes I hate being right.
He turned to face the new arrival as he approached, but he didn’t stand. Not yet.
“Sheriff,” Whitehead said. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his coat.
“Mr. Whitehead,” he said, trying to make the formality sound as hollow and silly as he thought it was.
Tanner’s mouth twisted into something like a smirk. “We have a problem,” he said.
The room was getting quieter. Keaton though that was unfortunate. “What would that be?” he asked.
“That truck can’t go to Omaha tomorrow.”
Keaton raised an eyebrow. He turned his head to look at Arctura, keeping Whitehead well within his field of vision. “Jose?” he said. “Thought you said it was good to go.”
Arctura bobbed his head and glared at Whitehead. “It is,” he said. “And it’s under guard right now. Three very good men.” Brenda looked puzzled. Adelina looked worried and a little excited at the confrontation. Her eyes kept darting from her father to the big blond man, then back again.
Actually, it was five men who were protecting the hangar, two of them well-hidden. They’d all talked about the security precautions on the way over. I’m not quite the idiot you think I am, boy, he thought at Whitehead. But his mouth made a smile. “The truck goes,” he said. “So do the second and third ones, in forty-eight and seventy-two hours, just as we planned.”
Whitehead was shaking his head, very slowly. He was starting to look a little shaggy. Rumor had it he didn’t want anyone with scissors or a razor getting too close to him; he thought he was that important. “That’s our food,” Whitehead said “Our fuel. There are a lot of people who don’t want us just giving it away to strangers.”