The Void

by Kivak, Albert

  II

  Jim Roberts had been chief of staff to the president for the last twenty-four years. At fifty-six, he had been lucky enough to serve under some of the best and most gracious men ever to lead the country. As he walked through the wide corridors of the White House, Roberts thought that on the presidential quality scale, current White House occupant, Francis Evans, was frankly out of his depth.

  A good president will have clarity of thought, an open mind, and a certain integrity, which inspires people to excel. Evans had none of these things and was, in Roberts’s eyes, still more concerned with opinion polls and how the public perceived him than actually making sure the country was run with some degree of competence. Roberts had been certain he would only last for a single term and was surprised and a little disappointed when Evans somehow managed to secure a second spell in charge. It seemed that now, though, the people were starting to tire of his empty promises and insincere bullshit and look towards the future. That kid from Ohio, Dixon, was looking good for the role and was everything that Evans was not. There was a wave of optimism and excitements about how he might change things for the better, and at just thirty-seven, had the energy and drive to finally move the country forward, if only Evans would release his death grip on the controls of the good ship U.S.A. that was.

  Roberts had seen this before, desperate old men trying to cling on to power, knowing that without it they would be just another citizen, just another man having to live under a country’s rules set by somebody else. It was the equivalent of a quest overstaying their welcome. Eventually, the host reached breaking point and kicked the guest to the curb. And not a moment too soon, because some of the president’s recent decisions had been bordering on crossing the line into abuse of power. Roberts knew well enough that the president danced to the beat of his own drum, that he had his own agenda and ready-made cast of cronies— yes men, designed to stroke his ego and tell him what he wanted to hear. He would never be a Lincoln or a Washington. Hell, he was barely a Clinton or Bush.

  Roberts arrived at the door to the oval office, took a deep breath, then knocked and entered. President Evans was sitting at his desk, poring over reports of the incident on Maple Street. He waved Roberts in and pointed to the seat opposite. Roberts sat and watched the tired old man finish reading the file, then close it.

  “This is all going to hell, Jim,” he said with a sigh, rubbing his temples.

  “Mr. President, I’m not sure if containment is the answer. If there is a threat to national security I—”

  “We can’t afford this to leak, not so close to the election,” Evans interjected, turning his cool blue gaze on his chief of staff.

  “Forgive me, sir, but isn’t public safety more important than politics right now?”

  Evans flashed a smile which reminded Roberts of a crocodile, then folded his hands on his desk. “You don’t understand, Jim. I know you have been here for a number of years, and your commitment to this country is second to none. Nevertheless, the fact remains, that until we have a clear indication of the circumstances surrounding the incident on Maple Street, then we must contain it. We cannot afford national panic.”

  “Sir, I just don’t see how we can keep a lid on this. With modern communication I—”

  “It’s already dealt with,” Evans said, raising a hand. “There is a strict three-mile perimeter around the street, and beyond that, citywide evacuations. We have also blocked all outgoing telephone and internet signals and imposed a ten-mile no-fly zone around the radius of the incident. The ‘lid’ as you put it, is firmly in place.”

  “And what about the terrorists, sir? What if there are more attacks?”

  “There won’t be.”

  “Again, sir, shouldn’t we prepare for every eventuality?”

  President Evans stood and walked to the window, folding his arms behind his back. For a few moments, there was silence, and then Evans turned towards Roberts, and for the second time in five minutes, flashed his reptilian grin.

  “Look, Jim, I know you mean well, and I know you have been here a hell of a long time; however, I remind you that I am commander in chief. The buck stops with me. So if I deem this as the best course of action, then I expect you to stand by me.”

  “Mr. President, I’m trying to offer an alternate viewpoint. I meant no disrespect.”

  The words grated on Jim, and second by second, his hate for the vile man in charge of the country grew. Evans sat and folded his hands on the desktop, then looked Roberts in the eye.

  “This country has been living on edge since 9/11. Of course, we tell the people we have it under control, but you and I both know that there are more terror groups out there than we can ever hope to monitor. We lie to the people not through cruelty, but because it’s vital we maintain calm.”

  Jim watched impassively, half thinking that with some tweaking, this dialogue could go straight into a reelection speech. Evans went on.

  “You and I both know the polls aren’t in my favor. That kid from Ohio is the new people’s favorite, and the truth is, I don’t think he’s ready. I think he is four or five years away from being ready to run this country, and I wish him luck.

  Four of five years, Jim thought to himself. Just enough time for you to squeeze one more term in. Convenient.

  “What I don’t want, Jim, and I’m sure you will agree, is for this country to put the wrong man in charge.”

  Too late for that.

  Jim ignored the thought and continued to give the president his full attention.

  “If there is one thing that the history of this country tells us, it’s that the people secretly enjoy a good crisis and more so the action that follows. We already have confirmation that there is a small terror cell in the area, but is that enough? Is it an Iraq war, or a 9/11 type situation where the country as one look to their leader for both guidance and swift action?”

  “I don’t quite understand what you are saying, sir,” Roberts said, barely able to hide his sheer disgust.

  “What I’m saying, Jim, is that we need this crisis. Sure enough, the people don’t know what it is yet, but only because we don’t either. Once we do know what’s in that hole, and what its threat level is, then we can destroy it. By any means necessary.”

  “Any means?” Roberts said, leaning forwards slightly. “Are you suggesting nuclear?”

  Evans squirmed and licked his lips. “I’m not suggesting anything, not yet. Not until we know more. All I’m saying is that if we decided that it was a viable option, and with the political landscape so fragile for this administration, then I think it would be acceptable to do so covertly.”

  “Covertly?” Roberts said, unable to hide his frustration. “We aren’t talking about a quick smash and grab here, sir; you are talking about a nuclear weapon with a blast radius of over five miles. The loss of life would be catastrophic.”

  “I agree, and I pray we don’t have to resort to such an extreme response. I’m just suggesting that by isolating the situation, we can put the blame squarely at the door of these terror groups, do what we need to do and then I can lead this country in pursuit of these vile groups for the remainder of my term, at least until Dixon, or whoever the public deem fit for the job can take over.”

  Roberts knew what was happening, and worryingly, was sure he knew exactly what Evans was planning. It was textbook. Discover situation, escalate situation, find a scapegoat, promise revenge, stay in power. It was both brilliant and nauseating. Roberts shuffled his position and looked Evans in the eye.

  “May I speak freely, sir?”

  “Of course, go ahead.”

  Roberts relaxed a little and leaned closer in his seat.

  “Look, Francis, my role here is to support you and advise you, and with that in mind, I implore you to think about what you are suggesting here. You are talking about dropping a nuke on a populated area, then spending trillions of dollars chasing ghosts in the aftermath, just to keep in office. Maybe it’s time to let someone else ta
ke the reins. Spend some time with Angela, go fishing. Enjoy retirement.”

  “You forget that these bastards struck first. They put this damn hole in the road and detonated suicide vests. God damn suicide vests!” he bellowed, flecks of spittle landing on the desk.

  “You might mean well, Jim, and I appreciate it, but I’m in charge here, and I know what’s best for this country. Do I have your support?”

  Jim hesitated, licking his lips as he swallowed back the answer that he wanted to give, and with it the tirade of abuse that he wanted to send across the desk to the pig-headed, self-serving man in charge of the nation.

  “Do I have your support?” Evans repeated, this time with more conviction.

  “Yes, sir, you have my support,” Jim said, just about able to hide his disgust.

  “Very good, now please, I have work to do.”

  Jim nodded and stood, then headed to the door. He wondered how it was that he was now more afraid of the President and what he might do than of the situation on Maple Street. Ignoring the quiver in his stomach and the weak, jelly-like feel of his legs as he walked, Jim left President Evans alone to contemplate the destruction of Maple Street and all in its surroundings.

  III

  Both Clifton and Embry stared at Morgan in wonder and anger respectively. The three had relocated to Clifton’s mobile command unit as the rest of his men worked on processing and organizing the now calm crowd ready for transport. Despite the no smoking signs, Embry lit a cigarette with shaking hands and inhaled gratefully as he cast a mistrustful eye towards Morgan, who was absolutely calm as he sat opposite Clifton. The room was also surrounded by armed guards, who were weapons ready, even if they weren’t directly pointing them at Morgan and Embry.

  “Okay,” Clifton said, looking at Embry. “Somebody talk to me and tell me what the hell is going on here.”

  “You guys are the army, if you don’t know, we really are screwed,” Embry shot back, inhaling deeply on his smoke.

  “Care to tell me how you survived that explosion just now?”

  Embry inhaled, coughed, tasted blood, swallowed it back down, and then inhaled again. “I don’t know.”

  “We ought to have someone take a look at you. That cough sounds bad.”

  “So it should. Cancer,” Embry said, managing a smile.

  “I’m sorry,” Clifton said, unsure quite how to respond.

  “Me too,” Embry replied as he blew smoke out of his nostrils.

  “She had to die.”

  Both Embry and Clifton looked at Morgan; who was staring at the tabletop, tapping it with a forefinger.

  “Who did?” Clifton asked.

  “The girl. They said they wanted her. She was spoiled.”

  “Which girl? Who wanted her?”

  “There was a girl, a young kid, in my house before that chopper of yours crashed. She didn’t make it.” Embry glared at Morgan as he said it, but the boy ignored it.

  “Do you know what’s in the hole, son?” Clifton asked, trying to coax the information out of the boy.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it? What’s down there?”

  “Fear,” Morgan said, smiling at Clifton.

  “But you aren’t afraid of them, are you, Morgan?” Clifton asked.

  “No, I don’t need to be. Neither does he,” the boy said absently, jabbing his thumb towards Embry.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re protected. They can’t hurt us, no matter what.”

  Embry looked just as surprised as Clifton and gawped at Morgan.

  “And what about us, the rest of us, I mean.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “Why?”

  Morgan looked Clifton in the eye, and the smile melted from his lips. “Everyone else is already dead. You can’t stop them.”

  “Then who can, Morgan. Please, what can we do?” Clifton was pleading now because he was afraid. The hole was unnatural, it had an aura that he could feel even here down the street in his command unit, and he would do anything to be rid of it.

  Morgan looked at Embry, then back to Clifton.

  “Come with me,” he said, hopping off his seat and towards the door. The armed guards bristled and visibly tensed, but Clifton stood them down and followed Morgan outside, Embry in tow.

  The incident with Embry and the helicopter had given the army enough time to regain control of the streets. Already, there was a heavily armed line as people were processed and sent to waiting buses in the adjoining streets, ready to be shipped out to temporary refugee camps which had been set up at the shopping mall a quarter of a mile away from Maple street. Although it was now empty, the street told its own story, and was littered with debris from the burning buildings and the crashed chopper, as well as spent bullet casings and occasional pockets of blood, which were already drying into the concrete.

  All paled in comparison to the void.

  It now covered the entire width of the street and seemed to thrum with an energy and power of its own. Morgan walked towards it and, as he followed, Clifton noticed that his watch had stopped working, and that the air tasted like the very edge of a coming storm after a sticky, hot summer. Morgan walked down the middle of the street, absently sidestepping the occasional twisted shard of rotor blade or chunk of concrete debris. He came to a halt around twelve feet from the hole and looked around at the empty houses which surrounded them. Embry watched, fascinated and more than a little afraid as the boy frowned, chewing his lip as he looked at the surrounding houses, then he slowly dropped to one knee, and placed his hands palms up on the asphalt at either side of him.

  They came instantly.

  Out of the dark places, under window frames and eaves, from under rocks and shadow-draped corners of homes they skittered on spindly legs towards Morgan. He closed his eyes and waited, and still they came, clambering onto his upturned palms and waiting there for the rest of their brethren. Embry and Clifton watched, mesmerized by the display as spiders of all shapes and sizes attached themselves to Morgan, climbing over each other in order to retain a hold. Soon enough, his palms were fully covered, and so the spiders started to spread up his arms. Embry felt his cancer ravaged innards squirm a little as he watched the bizarre display, and not for the first time wondered how the hell he had been pulled into such a situation.

  The public, those who were still being processed, were now watching the spectacle, and the excited whispers grew into a nervous chatter as people gathered close, straining to get a closer look at the boy in the middle of the street.

  “What the hell is this?” Clifton said, looking at Embry with a face that appeared stretched and exhausted.

  “I don’t know,” Embry replied, unable to take his eyes away from Morgan and his arms full of spiders.

  IV

  Sheppard had cleaned himself up as best he could, and amid the chaos, blended in perfectly with the crowd as they waited for the military to process them. Images of his daughter exploded into his mind, and it took all of his will to stop himself from reacting there and then. He pushed through the crowd to get a better look, keeping a cautious eye on the soldiers, who were, much like the public, staring at the boy who now had twin sleeves of spiders. Sheppard didn’t know how or why he had done such a thing and cared even less. His only concern was for revenge, which throbbed and pulsed at the very center of his being like a rotten tooth.

  He pulled the baseball cap lower over his eyes, and adjusted the backpack on his shoulder, shifting the weight of the bomb and its devastating payload across his spine. The idea of what he was about to do didn’t frighten him as he might have expected, in fact, the tight knot in his stomach was one of anticipation and excitement at avenging the death of his daughter. He nudged past a family, the father glaring at him, but perhaps seeing the emptiness in Sheppard’s eyes, averted his gaze and steered his family towards the line for processing. Sheppard moved closer, getting to the barrier less than ten feet from the boy and the two men. Under his shirt, he wore a vest
packed tightly with blocks of C4 explosive, which in turn were wired through the back of his coat and into the backpack, where the bulk of the device was located.

  He held the trigger in his hand, a simple push button device. When depressed, an electric charge would instantaneously detonate the C4, then the container within the backpack, which was filled with iron nails, ball bearings, and other shrapnel. The effects would be devastating, the loss of lives severe, and yet he could accept the casualties because it would mean that he had avenged his daughter, and done so with glory. He cautiously eyed the soldiers, who were still watching the spectacle unfold in the middle of the street. Discreetly, Sheppard reached under his sweater and armed the device. He took a deep breath and prepared to commit the ultimate sacrifice.

  He was ready.

  V

  With his arms now a skittering mass of spiders, Morgan stood and looked at both Clifton and Embry.

  “This way. Let me show you,” he said, and then walked towards the lip of the void. Embry and Clifton followed cautiously, both aware that for now, they were just bit part players in whatever Morgan was trying to show them. As they neared the hole, both Embry and Clifton were more aware of the energy, which emitted from it. There was a palpable energy, a sense of not only immense depth but of incredible power.

  Morgan was fearless as he walked to the edge, allowing the toes of his sneakers to hang over the edge.

  “Not too close, kid,” Embry said, but his voice felt somehow muted, changed by the atmosphere around the hole. Embry looked down and was overcome with an intense feeling of vertigo as the black depths of the void stared back at him.

  “It’s okay,” Morgan said.