“Since the solar storms knocked out sat-com, we’re basically back to World War Two levels of surveillance,” Alexander said. “Handheld cameras shooting on film. That’s the best we can do, but the navigator reported a series of small dome structures there in the rubble. If you look along the road near the bridge, you can just make them out.”
Murray took the photo from Schlagal. She made out a series of circular shapes in the grainy photograph, but they might as well have been porcelain saucers laid out on a filthy kitchen counter.
“I thought the helicopters employed modern technology,” Schlagal said.
“There’s no ‘modern’ anymore,” Alexander said. “Telemetry and targeting systems are useless given the EMF turbulence. Even if we could transmit data, we don’t have any equipment on this end to analyze it. For all practical purposes, our birds are out there flying blind.”
Alexander barely disguised his contempt for Schlagal’s ignorance. Homeland Security technically fell under the authority of New Pentagon. Murray didn’t want Alexander to be in a direct position to seize power, so she’d split Schlagal’s department into a civilian branch of government. Schlagal oversaw what little judicial duties remained in New Pentagon and in the society they would build as soon as the Zaps were exterminated.
Murray defended Schlagal purely out of the political need for checks and balances, as well as certain personal reasons that Alexander wouldn’t appreciate. But Alexander and his officers saw Schlagal as a shrill gadfly biting everyone on the ass.
“We’re all working under limitations,” Murray said, attempting to broker peace.
“A few hundred people against God only knows how many mutants,” Schlagal said.
“It’s only a matter of time before the Zaps figure out where we are,” Alexander said. “If they don’t already know. Meanwhile, they’re getting stronger and we’re getting weaker.”
“Well, you’re the expert,” Schlagal said with a sneer. “But it looks to me like they’re building defensive structures. And now they’re using weapons we don’t even understand. How do we fight that with our limited resources?”
“Last I looked, we’re still the humans,” the general said. “The good guys. And this is our turf.”
“And we’re not alone,” Murray said. “We’ve still got allies in Russia, China, and Israel that we know of, and all those brave Americans scattered around the country and fighting to the death. We’re a long way from defeat.”
“Yes, but when’s the last time you heard from these allies?” Schlagal asked. “Three months? Four?”
Shortwave radio contact had been sporadic for years, but lately it had dwindled to almost nothing. The electromagnetic flux scrambled signals on the airwaves, equipment was breaking down, and alternative power sources were unreliable. Those failures hid a starker truth that none of them wanted to face: that maybe nobody was left out there to talk into a microphone.
“We will operate as planned,” Murray said. “We handle our little corner of the Earth Zero Initiative and trust everybody else to do their jobs.”
Her words sounded hollow even to her own ears. She looked at the cinderblock walls that were painted a reflective shade of white that had dimmed to an antique, chalky gray. This was one of the more developed parts of the bunker system in Virginia’s Luray Caverns, located some one hundred miles west of D.C. Other inhabited sections featured slick rock walls illuminated only with small strands of miniature bulbs fed by a solar-panel array and a network of microturbines. The power system was subject to brownouts during stretches of bad weather, and Murray had ordered rotating shutdowns of the grid during night hours in order to preserve the diminishing batteries.
Those conspiracy nuts that imagined the government would survive Doomsday in pampered luxury were off by a mile. We’re crapping in the bushes and plucking roaches out of our rice just like everybody else.
“Since we’ve lost field contact with our two divisions, we’ll have to trust them to follow orders and fulfill their mission,” Alexander said. “We’ll send in air support when we can. We have two Blackhawk helicopters out on sorties now. That’s all the fuel we can spare at the moment, but it should let our troops in the field know we have their backs.”
Murray wondered how much of Alexander’s faith was based on his pride. He was a career officer just as Murray was a career politician, and neither ever imagined they would be thrust to the top in one cataclysmic upheaval. Sometimes in the night, Murray shuddered at the fragility of their position and how much responsibility they now carried. Not that history would remember if she failed.
The threat of extinction was oddly freeing in a way. It allowed her to be bold and decisive. There were no elections to win and no real opposition to her power. The human race had been beaten into submission and she projected a sense of hope that, however forced or feigned, seemed to lift the spirits of those she led.
Maybe projecting optimism was her sole job description.
“And Washington?” Murray asked Alexander.
“I’ll take my mechanized unit and head that way tomorrow. We should reach our objective in two days. If any of the capitol’s still standing, we’re taking it back.”
“This is the capitol now,” Schlagal said. “My job’s Homeland Security, and the caverns are secure. Don’t let your red-white-and-blue hard-on lead us all to destruction.”
“Helen,” Murray admonished. “No need to get personal.”
“She can’t help it,” Alexander said. “She’s spent so much time in the dark, she’s starting to think like a rat.” To Schlagal, he added, “Get outside once in a while. Maybe you’ll get your priorities right.”
“That’s enough.” Murray’s bellow filled the chamber and likely carried to the people beyond the door. It did the job, as the two aides fell into a shamed silence. Softer, Murray continued. “We need to present a united front on this. People are scared. I mean, they’re always scared, but with all the troops on the move, the place feels abandoned.”
Schlagal’s eyes shone with tears, and Murray didn’t know if they were from self-pity or from worry about the dwindling citizenry she served. In pre-storm society, tears were a sign of weakness in a woman, but now they were welcomed as one of the last precious vestiges of humanity. Alexander’s lip curled in distaste, but he wouldn’t lower himself to ridicule her emotions.
We all have our individual reactions to fear. Helen weeps, Arnold flies into a rage, and me…I suppose I hang on to the past so tightly that I choke it to death.
Gen. Alexander moved around the tabletop map, glancing at the American flag draped on one wall like an antique tapestry. He hugged Schlagal, who sagged into his embrace and gave one last quivering sob before she regained her composure. “I apologize, Helen,” the general said with a solemn tenderness that none of his junior officers would’ve believed possible. “I reckon we’re all a little wired right now.”
Schlagal nodded and wiped her eyes, smearing her makeup. Murray had to smile at that. A woman’s pride was as potent as a man’s. It just wore a different mask.
“We’re done here,” Murray said. “Let’s go out there and comfort the people. But first, let’s close this thing the right way.”
They closed their eyes and lowered their heads in prayer. Murray invoked words and phrases she dimly remembered from Catholic school, hardly hearing herself reciting them. Earth Zero would certainly not be a Christian society and no doubt human differences would arise to divide them all once they reclaimed their world, but until then Abigail Murray intended to keep tradition alive.
She figured God would approve and, if it came to that, Satan would understand.
After they intoned “Amen” in unison, Alexander and Schlagal headed for the door. “A moment, Arnold?” she said, sparking a suspicious glare from Schlagal.
“Tactics,” Murray said, hoping her smile appeared more genuine than it felt. Trust was important among such a small inner circle, but there were some secrets Murray didn’t
want to spread.
Gen. Alexander gave Schlagal’s shoulder a squeeze of reassurance, and the woman opened the heavy wooden door and slipped into the larger inhabited area of the cavern beyond. Alexander turned to face her, ramrod straight, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back so that his medals thrust forward.
A week ago, Alexander had personally overseen the execution of a married couple that had tried to steal one of the trucks. The punishment was necessary and lawful and had to be done in the most public way to set an example. Civilians were free to leave the outpost if they wished, but stealing from the government meant an immediate death sentence under Directive Seventeen. Alexander hadn’t flinched in that duty, and he would face whatever task Murray assigned him.
Not because he liked her or the guiding principles she’d put in place, but because he believed in duty above all.
“You have four days to get to Washington and back,” Murray said.
“Or Directive Eighteen,” he said, forcing his face to remain impassive.
“Directive Eighteen.”
He saluted and followed Schlagal out the door. He closed it behind him to leave High President Abigail Murray alone to wrestle with what was likely to be her final decision.
A final decision for all of them.
CHAPTER THREE
“Two days late,” Franklin Wheeler said.
“You worry too much,” Stephen Henderson said, with his typical teenage insouciance.
They sat on the floor in a closet-sized room with blankets scattered around them. The cramped space had become their living quarters since the military takeover. Despite a ventilation system powered by a solar array, the room smelled of old socks and spoiled food.
“Our bunker’s been seized by the government, the Zaps have a bunch of flying metal birds dive-bombing any human in sight, the humans are outnumbered a hundred to one by the mutants, Rachel and DeVontay haven’t come back, and you tell me not to worry.” Franklin tugged at his wiry beard that sported the same white, gray, and black colors as an opossum’s fur.
As Rachel’s grandfather, he had a personal stake in their loss. Rachel and DeVontay created the center and foundation of this screwed-up, improvised family unit. If they never returned, Franklin would have to take charge, and he was way too selfish and reclusive at this stage of his life.
“They’ve been late before,” Marina Jiminez said. Although a year younger than Stephen at fourteen, she was calmer and more level-headed aside from her obsession with Kokona, the tiny mutant infant they’d raised for the past five years.
“Raised”? That’s a laugh. The little freak hasn’t grown an inch in that time.
“Yeah,” Franklin said. “Late a few hours. They never get back after sundown, and never two days after they said they’d be.”
“Do you think Captain Asshole will let us out to look for them?” Stephen said.
“I don’t know. He probably wouldn’t trust us with guns, and it would be suicide to go out there unarmed.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Stephen said. “If he wants to get rid of us, that would be the easiest way to do it. No bodies piled around rotting and stinking up the joint.”
“You can’t go out there,” Marina said. “You saw what those birds did to the soldiers. Not to mention the monsters and the Zaps.”
As Capt. Mark Antonelli’s unit approached the former military bunker they intended to reclaim, a flock of metallic birds had swooped from the sky like tiny projectile missiles, penetrating skull and flesh and slaughtering twenty-three people. Franklin and the others had witnessed the attack on video monitors inside the bunker. Franklin could’ve sat tight and let the unit be wiped out, but instead he’d opened the thick steel door and saved Antonelli and a dozen of his troops.
Franklin had been regretting that decision ever since: Antonelli immediately took control, accused Kokona of summoning the flock of birds, and placed her in solitary confinement in a rear room. Only Marina was allowed in to care for the Zap infant, whose startling intelligence kept her two moves ahead of anyone who tried to figure her out. Was she just an innocent child involuntary converted into a mutant, or did an endemic malevolence hide behind those madly sparking, slanted eyes?
Franklin had never trusted the little freak, but he didn’t like Capt. Antonelli deciding her fate. Kokona might be a ruthless, manipulating killer, but she was their killer.
Which made Rachel’s absence all the more terrible, since Rachel carried on an intermittent telepathic connection with Kokona. If anyone could tell how responsible Kokona was for the attack, it would be Rachel.
“The captain might let us go if we tell him it’s a rescue mission,” Franklin said. “Sure, we’re safe in here, but prison is safe, too. Worse comes to worse, we can go back to my compound and let these jarheads play hero all they want.”
“Sounds like you just want a revolution,” Stephen said. “As long as it’s not your neck under the guillotine.”
“You’ve been reading too many comic books, son.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m living in a comic book.”
“What happens to Kokona if we leave?” Marina said.
Not for the first time, Franklin wondered whose side Marina would choose if it came down to “us versus them.” He’d even wondered the same thing about Rachel. Maybe their prolonged exposure to Kokona had weakened them and allowed the tiny mutant to mess with their minds.
You gotta admit, staying eighteen months old for the rest of your life puts you in a pretty good position to manipulate folks, especially when you can talk and you’re cute as hell.
“Kokona can take care of herself,” Franklin said. “She’s done a pretty good job of it so far.”
“You’ve always hated her,” Marina said in a rare burst of emotion. “Just because you’re a thousand years old and think you know how everybody else is supposed to live. Only you call it ‘freedom’ and ‘independence’ when you do it and ‘stupidity’ when it’s anybody else. Well, sorry, but you’re not God. You don’t get to decide who lives or dies.”
Stephen grinned at the girl, his affection clear in his gleaming eyes. Franklin figured if push came to shove, the boy would take her side.
Damn if she’s not right. I’m the only one here who knows how to be free.
“Either way, I’m not sitting around waiting for the captain to decide my fate,” Franklin said. “And every minute we sit here is another minute Rachel might be in trouble.”
“They can take care of themselves,” Stephen said. “They’ve been making supply runs for years.”
“If they’re so good at it, why are you still eating MREs?” Franklin plucked a rumpled pouch from the floor and sniffed it. “Ugh. Anchovy paste.”
Stephen shrugged. “Guilty. So shoot me.”
“I hope you’re not planning on kissing anybody.” Franklin eyed Marina, who didn’t take the bait. He rose to his feet and tossed the empty food pouch at Stephen, who swatted it away. “I think I’m ready to make a stink of my own.”
Stephen opened his mouth like he was about to make a joke, then decided against it. In better times, the occupants of the bunker relieved themselves in the forest, but since the lockdown, they were resigned to the chemical toilets in a washroom near the mess hall. Despite the potent cleansers and deodorants, the low-level stench was slowly expanding along the bunker’s eighteen rooms. The population increase had strained all of their resources, especially filtered water.
While the bunker was designed to withstand aerial bombardment and provide some protection from radioactive fallout, as well as being shielded against damage from electromagnetic pulses such as the solar storms, Franklin felt more secure at his Wheelerville mountaintop compound. A survivalist long before the Y2K panic, he’d installed his own shielded equipment and raised livestock and organic produce. With plenty of wood for cooking and heating, and wild game when he wanted to hunt or fish, he thought of his camp as a vacation retreat that any civilized human w
ould find desirable. The compound was even surrounded by a camouflaged and concealed fence, which came in handy once the wildlife began mutating into dangerous beasts.
He was nearly to the door when Stephen called, “Hold up, I’m coming, too.”
Franklin hid his smile, not wanting to further embitter Marina. He went into the narrow hall to grant the two teens privacy for whatever discussion they needed to have, but after only a few muffled words, Stephen joined him.
“So she’s okay with it?” Franklin said.
“Of course not. She’s a girl.”
Franklin saw no need to explain the delicate nature of relationships. Considering his four divorces, he doubted he had any wisdom to offer. It was impossible to navigate the complex situation, anyway, considering both teens had been orphaned. They’d been informally adopted by Rachel and DeVontay as youngsters, and now they were growing into young adults who would have to decide if they were brother and sister, romantic interests, or merely fellow survivors.
Nostalgia for the good old days was pretty much a waste of time, but Franklin couldn’t help but muse how much simpler romantic crushes were before the apocalypse.
The bunker was quiet in the early afternoon, with lunch finished and most of the soldiers retiring to their bunks or the rec room that was little more than a card table, ashtrays, and a stack of magazines. Because of the indoor pollution, cigarettes were rationed to two a day, but only a few of Antonelli’s crew smoked. Apparently the constant threat of death had made them more health-conscious.
Antonelli had taken the telecommunications room as his headquarters, and they found him there, sitting in a swivel chair and reading a battered paperback. Franklin recognized it as the copy of George Orwell’s Animal Farm that Stephen had borrowed from him and never returned. The captain flipped the book on the metal table next to the radio without marking his place.
Earth Zero: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Next Book 2) Page 2