CHAPTER 7
On Campaign
VANESSA BRANT STARED SIGHTLESSLY through their hotel suite’s huge floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the hotel's atrium. The National Committee meetings continued to drag on and on, oblivious to the deteriorating conditions surrounding the resort. She could take only so many practice speeches before she'd had to escape.
Overlooking Lake Grapevine, the secluded resort came pre-staffed with on-site armed security that kept the conference attendees isolated in perfect safety. She wandered along the reproduction of San Antonio's River Walk before returning to the refreshment room for the committee staff. Plush, high-backed leather chairs surrounded a solid ebony table that gleamed under the bright lights set into the ceiling. As a wealthy, long-serving Senator's daughter, she was used to luxury.
She ignored the large screen TV on the far wall that replayed Father's intro speech. She'd heard it a hundred times already—at home, on the plane, and yesterday during his final practice session. Her eyes moved instead to the expensive paintings on display around the conference room, clad in thick, gilded frames.
Texas history came to life in those paintings. Cowboys, revolutionaries, rebels, cattlemen, oilmen—they were all there, depicted through that unique hazy light so typical of western art. The wide open spaces, the big blue sky, the struggling patriots, the pioneers—they all looked the same to her.
"…humbly accept the urging of this committee and the American voters they represent…" Father droned on in the background.
Vanessa walked aimlessly over to the buffet table which groaned under the weight of all the finger foods, fresh fruits, and pastries. She picked up a plump grape and popped it into her mouth, savoring the explosion of sweetness on her tongue. Two more followed as she idly perused the expensive spread.
"…pleased to accept your nomination as candidate for President…"
Vanessa turned to see herself standing next to Senator Brant as the camera angle changed from a close-up of Father’s earnest face to a wide angle shot. She frowned. While she'd thought her pale green sheath dress went beautifully with her hair, the knee-length skirt and high neckline made her look washed out and frumpy on the screen.
That won't do at all—I need to go shopping before the convention, that's for damn sure. She looked down at her ample chest and smiled. I'll go with something in a jewel tone and more low-cut for sure next time.
"…support of my wonderful family: my wife Isobel…" Father said, motioning to his invisible spouse. "She'll be here for the convention of course," his image said, not missing a beat, "and my beautiful daughter, Vanessa."
A silent thrill tickled up the back of her neck as she watched Father casually drape his arm around her shoulders and squeeze her close. They were the center of attention—everyone cheering for them as she blushed under the spotlights. His fingers had accidentally brushed the curve of her breast, but luckily you couldn’t see it from the angle of the camera shot.
She blinked and turned away. She wanted to run, yell, laugh, cry—she wanted to do so many things at once it felt like she'd be torn to pieces.
She spun in a circle, ignoring Father's speech now. She knew he'd gone on for another ten minutes, talking up American values and civic virtue—the foundations of his political persona. Vanessa smirked.
Her eyes fell on an expensive-looking messenger bag in a chair across the room. The unattended luggage pulled her forward like a magnet. The bag turned out to be only a midline Tumi, not the same quality as her J.W. Hulme, but… She raised an eyebrow and quickly glanced out the door before her fingertips kissed the supple black leather and her eyes closed in appreciation.
She opened the bag and discovered it belonged to Roger Trung, Father's assistant. Vanessa pictured Trung's exotic face—not quite handsome, but enticingly unique compared to Father's usual circle of minions. She pawed through his belongings and found plane tickets, notebooks, travel receipts, itineraries, and his tablet.
Her lips curled. She took another look down the hallway before activating the tablet.
No passwords? You should take your security more seriously, Roger…
Vanessa was bored and needed an outlet—planting something dirty on Trung's device felt good. Once the camera was ready, she hastily undid her blouse and snapped several revealing shots of her cleavage.
She quickly set the raunchiest picture as the tablet's home screen and was beginning to button her blouse when a shadow darkened the floor at her feet. Vanessa spun, slipping the tablet behind her back.
"Vanessa?"
She smiled, excitement crackling over her skin like lightning. And I thought taking the pictures was fun—getting caught is so much better!
"Roger! What a surprise," she said. Her smile widened as his eyes dropped to her exposed chest. She dropped the tablet into the bag behind her as she stepped forward—mission accomplished.
"You…wow." A smile spread across his face. He leaned around her to look for his bag. "I just came back to grab something…"
"I'll bet," she purred, moving toward him and the door. "I was just leaving."
He turned and half-blocked her way. "Why?" he asked in a husky voice. His eyes never left her bosom. "I've seen how you watch me."
Vanessa's smile vanished as the thrill of her little adventure evaporated. She didn't feel any danger—she knew Father would kill Roger if he touched her—she was more upset that he thought she'd been looking at him. She'd caught him on more than one occasion staring at her, but had never had much interest in playing with him like she had with Sullivan or the others.
He was quiet, soft-spoken, polite, and already interested. It was too easy—Roger Trung followed orders, he didn’t give them.
She forced a small smile and put a hand on his chest as she kept moving toward the door. "Oh Roger, you flatter me, but I really must be going."
He stepped forward and pushed himself against her, pinning her against the door frame. She took a quick breath as his thigh brushed her hips—he wanted her to stay, the proof pressed against her stomach.
This is going too far. Panic made her heart rate increase—she saw the glassy look in Roger’s eyes, noticed the flush to his skin, and swallowed.
I have to end this.
"I've waited a long time for this, Vee," he whispered. He leaned close, the full length of his body against hers. "I never knew you wanted me too."
I don't! She couldn't say it out loud because he'd pressed his lips against hers. Enough of this.
She pushed him back, adrenaline giving her more strength than she’d realized.
"Roger, stop it."
"Oh, it's like that, huh?" he said with a sudden sneer. "You get to be the slut, waving your ass at everyone who has eyes, but you won't even kiss me? Why?" he demanded, his face darkening.
"Roger, you're scaring me," she said, fingers fumbling at her blouse as she backed into the hallway. She’d been hoping to have a little fun—this wasn’t what she’d expected from Roger at all. She glanced over her shoulder, looking for the ever-present security guards that followed Father around like lost puppies.
"There's no one up here but you and me, princess," Trung growled. "I heard the announcement—they're going to shut down DFW. The flu, you know? All flights out have been canceled—nationwide. It's the end of the world, Vee."
She stared at the dangerous glint in Roger's eye. “Stop calling me that.”
He casually raised an arm to lean against the door frame, blocking her exit. "Daddy's security team is trying to convince him to leave," he teased. "They're all in the main auditorium arguing over what message it would send if—"
Vanessa slipped under his arm and sprinted down the hallway. A primal fear filled her mind, propelling her forward. She'd always been in control, always safe knowing that whoever she flirted with would never dare do anything—Father would ruin their lives or his security team would ruin their day.
"Get back here!" Roger shouted.
Vanessa turned and slam
med into an emergency stairwell, throwing the heavy fire door open. Her heart pounding, she froze at the landing and stared down over the railing. If she ran and Trung followed her, what kind of trouble would she be in? He must have seen her messing with his bag after all. Father would at least pretend to believe her but for the sake of the campaign, he couldn't allow a scandal. He would cover it up, just like he always did.
A smile crept across her face. She knew how to regain control.
Trung stepped through the emergency exit and smiled, finding her there waiting for him. "I knew it. You wanted privacy." He stared to unbutton his shirt.
"Why don't you shut the door and come over here," she murmured, unbuttoning her blouse even further. Tracing a finger down her lacy bra, she hoped the thudding of her heart wouldn't give her away. She'd never been so excited, so wild with possibility. Vanessa was stepping into uncharted territory where her next decision would have life-altering consequences for the both of them.
"Oh, my God," he said, staring at her. He fumbled at his belt as he stepped closer. "Oh, my God…you're so beautiful."
She put on her best smile and reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. His eyes narrowed, his breath became ragged, and his clumsy hands moved to her chest. Vanessa closed her eyes at his amateur groping and pushed the sensations aside as she pulled his head down. His breath, hot on her exposed skin, reeked of the spicy Tex-Mex they'd had for lunch.
Vanessa hesitated over her choice: push him back over the railing or take the next step and see where it took her?
In the end, Roger made the decision for her. He lurched forward, hand on her breast, pulling at her bra. A sudden rush of fear made her spin away and push as hard as she could. He had time to gasp before he hit the railing and teetered over the empty stairwell with her hands still on his chest.
She saw the surprise and fear in his eyes as he realized his life belonged to her. She pushed again and Roger screamed as he disappeared backward over the safety railing, a fistful of her bra cup still in his hand. Her heart leapt into her throat as she was pulled to the rail with him.
Then she heard the swift, quiet rip of delicate thread and silky fabric. She was left with a stinging welt on her shoulder where the bra strap whipped back against her skin, but Roger was gone. She watched him land head first on the landing below with a sickening crunch. His legs fell behind and below him with a thud as his limp body came to a stop.
She pulled back from the rail as the dull sound of the body's impact echoed up the stairwell. Someone shouted from down the hall. One trembling hand went to her mouth and came away stained with smeared lipstick. She struggled to collect herself and refasten her blouse, then thought better of it and staggered into the hallway instead.
“Help!” she cried. "Someone help me!"
CHAPTER 8
News
CHAD WOKE TO THE sensation of heat on his face. He cracked one eye then promptly closed it against the blinding light of the sun. He had no idea where he was, only that he was hungry, exhausted, and sore. He rolled onto his back and stretched, relishing in the soft feel of the carpet beneath him.
His eyes flew open and he stared at the unfamiliar ceiling some twenty feet above him. Chad sat up out of the ray of sun that broke through the curtains in the front room of the house. His stomach reminded him he needed food and he needed it now. Chad got to his feet, groaning as his abused muscles protested the movement. He glanced at his mud and filth-covered watch and opened his mouth in a jaw cracking yawn. He'd only been asleep four hours.
He moved cautiously about the house, checking the ground floor for bodies. The place looked like an abandoned third-world refugee camp. In the dining room next to a tall china hutch, he found boxes of medical supplies strewn about the floor as if someone had gone to the store and bought one of everything they could find. Most of the items, he knew from experience, were useless against the flu. He found bandages, gauze wrappings, tape and a cold compress. A few empty boxes of Tami-flu and a couple of empty Gatorade bottles completed the mess on the dining room table.
Chad made his way through the living room where blankets and pillows had been spread out in front of a long-cold fireplace. He stepped into the kitchen and noticed the clock on the microwave displayed the correct time: 10:52am. The house still had power.
He scrambled to the fridge and threw it open. Soda, bottles of wine, and a few curdled jugs of milk filled the top half. He pulled open the crisper drawer and found moldy packages of lunch meat and sliced cheese, along with a block of cheddar that looked unopened. He ate half the package and downed an entire can of soda before releasing a loud belch.
"Excuse me," he muttered. Chad laughed—as if manners mattered to anyone else in the rest of the world.
Finally some luck had gone his way. The owners of the house died early on in the pandemic, so all of the pre-packaged food in the pantry and unopened items in the fridge had sat and waited for him. He tore another chunk of cheese off the block and chewed as he rummaged, pulling out a bag of cookies and a box of crackers.
Another thought struck him: if this house still had power, he might be able to get some news off the TV. Chad scooped up the crackers, cheese, and cookies before he grabbed a new soda from the fridge.
He walked around the large marble island in the center of the kitchen and sank down onto the patterned sofa in the adjacent living room. Kicking aside some blankets crusted with what looked like bloody vomit, he stretched out, not caring that the filth caked on his clothes ruined everything he touched.
On the coffee table, in front of a box of tissues and what looked like half a dozen balled up tissues, he found the TV remote. Chad settled in and turned it on.
He chewed on the block of cheddar as the TV came to life. The message on the screen showed it was searching for the satellite. He didn't mind waiting. He finished his second soda by the time the TV found a suitable signal. It came blaring to life with a loud pharmaceutical commercial on a 24-hour news network.
Chad leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes in bliss as he chewed more of the delicious cheese. For the first time in almost two days, his stomach had stopped growling. Now he ate for pleasure.
The commercial ended with the usual “…ask your doctor about…” and Chad opened his eyes to see the haggard image of a news anchor filling the screen.
"…imperative you seek medical attention," the newsman said, staring into the camera with red-rimmed eyes encircled by deep shadows. He coughed and wiped a filthy handkerchief across his mouth. Wheezing with the effort, he slumped over the desk, motioning to someone off-camera.
The image switched to a satellite feed from downtown New York, according to the little ribbon of text in the bottom corner. Chad stopped chewing, his mouth full of stale cookie. The aerial image swayed and shook. Chad narrowed his eyes—the camera swooped and jiggled much too fast to be a helicopter—it had to be drone footage.
The camera hovered over one of the dozens of abandoned cars and Chad got a good look at the trash piled along the streets.
And I thought the garbage situation at DFW was bad!
He swallowed. The amorphous lumps he’d assumed to be uncollected abandoned garbage and belongings turned out to be bodies. Scores of them, all stacked like bricks along the sidewalks. Gray arms, bloated bellies, and sightless eyes came into sharp focus as the little drone zipped over one side of the road and hovered for a moment. The camera moved straight up and presented a long shot down the street, depicting thousands of bodies creating two walls, one on either side of the street as far as he could see.
"Oh, my God," he muttered around a mouthful of cheese. He swallowed, though now it felt like choking down a rock. He'd lost his appetite and put the half-eaten block down.
The image on the screen switched back to the studio where the anchor sat behind the desk looking more composed. He coughed again, a wet, gurgling sound.
"I apologize for that. I'll stay on the air as long as I can to keep relaying the informatio
n we have, but…" He glanced at the empty chair next to him.
"It's what Maria would have wanted. To her family, if you're still alive and watching out there, you have the deepest condolences of everyone here at Channel 10." His shoulders shook with the effort to cough again. After he'd caught his breath, he wiped his mouth again with the ratty handkerchief. Chad saw a fresh red stain on it now. The reporter saw it too and paused, staring at the filth in his hand.
He looked up at the camera. "I can't do this anymore." He held up a hand. "No—the hell with them, Nick. Look at this!" he said, waving the bloody rag. "My family's dead and what am I doing? I should be grieving, but I'm here, at the God damn station!" He lurched to his feet, knocking papers from the desk in his clumsy attempt to stand.
"I'm dying, Nick! What are they going to do, arrest me? Fuck it!" He loosened the blood-splattered tie at his throat as he coughed. The newsman stared at the camera.
"You want me to relay the news? Fine. Here it is—pay attention FCC." He cleared his throat and hocked a bloody mess on the desk in front of him.
"To anyone out there still watching, spend as much time as you can with your family and loved ones. It's the end of the fucking world—you've seen the pictures! How's that, Nick?"
The camera followed him as he stripped off his jacket and tossed it on the desk. He staggered to the side of the studio, muttering as he lurched from the immaculate set toward a darkened world of wires, computer screens, and empty work stations.
"This is all just a facade." He doubled over and wheezed as the shaky camera followed him as far as possible. "We're trying to keep you all thinking it's okay somewhere out there, to 'give you hope'," he said, shaking his head.
He was out of view now, but his mic was still on. "It's what the government ordered us to do—but we haven't heard from them in days now. My God, you saw the film out of Beijing—and that was two weeks ago. If New York looks like this now, what do you think Beijing looks like? They had three times our population!"
The Source: A Wildfire Prequel Page 5