by C. Martens
Rheumy eyed and tired once again, Sparky replied. “Sure, sure…there’s an old ranch house over on the north end with an old split rail fence. It hasn’t been lived in in years. Grey, with what’s left of an old barn just past it and across the road. A really big barn. And there’s some apples, maybe, in the old orchard just east of the house. Probably still green, but you might find some early ones.”
He gave her a good description of what surrounded the area, explained how to get there, just two turns, and Chloe was on her way. She glanced at each of the two men still sleeping. Andy was exhausted, or he would never have slept through the exchange, but Emmett was just a heavy sleeper. With trepidation, Chloe shook Andy awake as she did a quick one-eighty and passed Sparky, again on the opposite side of the road. They waved to each other.
Roads were empty. Towns were empty. But houses? Houses contained stories. As Andy and Chloe shifted their path through California, they avoided any long term stays in any one location. Even wearing protective gear, they learned to avoid houses.
The old grey house had stories to tell, but not the kind that the trio was avoiding. Having fallen into neglect, the house had been abandoned for the last few years. Replaced by more modern digs, just as many rural dwellings are, the building had seen occasional resurrections over the years by young families returning to live close to parents but not for some time lately. Still structurally sound, it was getting close to the point that it would start to deteriorate beyond the point of usefulness.
Chloe pulled up in front. Obviously the place that Sparky directed them to, it looked perfect for their use. A drive, overgrown with weeds and small Dutch elms, led around to the rear of the building. The Jeep would be hidden from view. Emmett suggested that they scope the place out before pulling in, and he and Andy walked up the drive and around the back of the house to the back door. An empty carport attached at the back shaded the entrance. They forced the door, did a quick inspection, and soon returned with their approval. Chloe pulled in, trying to avoid any damage to the vegetation crowding the entry from the road. Andy followed her, kicking leaves and replacing fallen branches across their path in a way that obscured their passage.
Late enough in the day, Emmett prepared a quick meal under the carport. He was becoming adept at making a worthy repast out of canned goods. While he was busy, Chloe inspected the house and found it fairly well furnished with stuff that might not sell at a yard sale. In the shed supporting the roof of the carport opposite the house, Andy found a rusting set of lawn furniture thrown into a corner. He dug the jumble out, and they had a serviceable place to sit next to the Jeep. As they ate, the news from the world flowed from the comlink and put an exclamation point on the efforts they were making to stay isolated.
After turning the mattresses over on the beds, the night was spent in more comfort than they had experienced since they left the big city. Dreaming heavily, each had small nightmares but not intense enough to wake them up. Perhaps they were even having visions of past lives, red Lincoln convertibles and Dalmatians that still inhabited the grey house.
In the mid-fifties of the prior century, within a decade of the Great War, a one-eyed man and his society-enamored wife moved in just after it was built. They brought their three children with them. Well, actually four, as the woman was pregnant.
Wealthy in relation to the other residents of the tiny ranching community, they pushed their way into valley politics as though they belonged. While the man was occasionally abrasive, the woman was a schmoozer and skilled at acquiring power. She gave extravagant, western-themed parties, intended to let people know that they were in the presence of success. Her husband reinforced her activities by pouring money into the ranch. Even so, they made an effort to fit in as real people. While they drove a new, red Lincoln convertible to the Methodist church on Sunday, trips into the town hardware or feed store during the week were made in a Model A dump truck that was missing its doors. The folksy people of the valley embraced them, both for their entertaining excesses and their down home kindnesses. The man had a gypsy spirit, though, and secretly, even from his wife, had put the ranch up for sale as soon as he bought it. Selling at a good profit within a couple of years, they moved on. The wife was furious. Her efforts were bearing beautiful fruit, and she wished to raise her children in this small Shangri la in the northern California Mountains. The house never had days as good again.
When informing Chloe of the old house, Sparky had also mentioned that the barn was part of the original ranch and had been sold off as the place was divided. Now there was a newer house built uncomfortably close to it on the south side. The people in the house were dead, according to Sparky. He had found them, his friends that he got fresh eggs from, as he walked the valley with his canine companion. He advised Chloe to avoid the house.
Walking in the orchard, looking for apples worth eating and finding a few, Chloe and Emmett kept watch on the place across the road in the gathering morning light. They had both gotten up before the sun rose and meeting in the hallway, decided to explore the early hours together. No lights shone. No smoke issued from the chimney. No vehicles moved. An old, arthritic dog padded across the parking area, just visible through the trees that crowded the barn. He did what was necessary and returned to the entry of the house and lay down after lapping water from a dish. Chloe rightly assumed that Sparky was caring for it.
When the three travelers returned from a hike in the hills behind the house that afternoon, they found a fabric bag with a pair of small zucchini and a still thawing package of hamburger. They all appreciated Sparky’s care and mentally thanked him for his gift. Anything fresh was always welcome. The small gift inside the handle of the bag after Sparky had wiped his eyes was not noticed, so they failed to thank him for that.
Chapter 10
The President of the United States of America sat in the situation room by himself. He was cogitating on the developments of the last several days, weeks, and months. Time alone seemed especially important to him in the last weeks. All of the effort he had put into the crafting of his life, his legacy, were crashing down around him. The projections were beyond any degree of reason he could accept, yet they were what they were. He was a realist before anything else. Otherwise he would not be here. Where some men earlier in the century had taken office by riding waves of luck, he and his team had driven their own bus into the White House.
The report he held in his hand outlined yet another tragedy in the long list of debacles that had overcome his administration. Trusted associates, and others, would soon flood in to crowd the conference table that was too large for the space. Many would find standing room only. His duty would be to pass on the information in the pages. He resented that duty now, but he would do what was necessary. If nothing else, he would do his job.
A light tap sounded at the door. He placed the protective mask over his face before assenting to the entry of the first participant. The face covering of the man was examined as he entered by the secret service man stationed outside. No one would enter without protection. Even so, there had been several diagnoses and deaths within the grounds. Some that would be coming in would be working through their death sentence. Four months and counting since the first facts surfaced, and the situation was out of control.
The room filled. Oddly, someone entered with a cup of coffee and placed it, front center, as he sat down. No one seemed to notice that the coffee was an anomaly in a room full of justifiably paranoid, fully-masked bureaucrats. The steam rising from the cup diminished as it cooled. Frightened people whispered with muffled voices. In a place known for the volatility and high passions normally expressed, this crowd was anything but loud. The quiet struck many as strange, but no one would bring that welcome ejaculation of humor that usually broke any unnatural silences. The quiet felt appropriate.
The President never called the room to order. He had always delegated the responsibility to his Chief of Staff or others as need be, so he was never blamed for starting prem
aturely. One of his strengths was deflecting criticism. Unfortunately that was not working anymore. The COS stepped forward from behind several people grouped to the side of the table, and without sitting in his customary seat which had been left empty out of respect, he flat handed the wide surface of the tabletop. Three times, slowly and purposefully, he slapped the massive piece of furniture, and the already quiet room became silent.
The lack of noise seemed to hang in the air for an extraordinary amount of time. Eventually, small sounds crept in. The shuffling of feet being repositioned, the slight noise of fabric as it rustled, papers rubbing against each other as they were gripped too tightly and almost dropped. Finally, the man everyone worked for cleared his throat.
The President spoke, referencing a term from his Italian heritage, “Folks, we’re going to go to the mattresses. You all know that the situation is out of control. I thank each and every one of you for the assistance you’ve given, but we’ve failed and it’s time to make the call. We’re going to have to ride this one out as best we can. The Vice President is already sequestered in a safe place. The Speaker is ill, and has been replaced by the highest ranking member that has proven clear of disease. That’s the junior Congressman from Hawaii that I’m sure you’ve all heard of. In other words, all of the higher ranking Congresspeople are expected to die.”
The strong man faltered, his face twisting in an effort to control the powerful emotion that had suddenly engulfed him. A woman behind him made as if to lay her hand on his shoulder, but she drew back, suddenly aware that the gesture might be a violation of etiquette. He went on.
“We are at war, people. We’ve known this for some time now. I don’t want any of you to think we are throwing in the towel, but we are going to suspend all government activity until the crisis stabilizes, and we can expect to function. I know we have discussed the possibilities in regards to nations that intend us harm, but it’s clear that they have problems of their own.”
Again the Commander in Chief paused. He was learning to appreciate the act of breathing. He filled his lungs slowly and deeply before resuming.
“I have one more announcement to make before we all retire to whatever safety we can find.”
Almost half of those in this room, mostly military, would remain with him in the Presidential bunker below the White House. Some had been asked to remain topside to do whatever they could for as long as they could. The others would fend for themselves.
“About three weeks ago, we started to receive information that most of you are aware of. That there was a third plague.”
Surreptitiously, the President glanced up. He wanted to observe the reactions of two people in the room. Both appeared unaffected, calm.
“This report in my hand defines what we know. It is clear that we have a source of that third plague.”
Suddenly the man and woman engaging the President’s interest became focused. Looking like they had suddenly been jolted into a caffeine high, they both stood straighter and did a quick check of the room. The action did more to confirm the conclusions within the report than the investigation had. The President had it in mind to arrest the moles within the room at this point, but he felt a sudden urge for vengeance, so he damped his desires to see them in cuffs. He wanted to let them know what was coming.
“Salt Lake City seems to be immune to the third plague. It’s been confirmed that the toxin was released in an effort to protect that area. It is the conclusion of this administration that the intent is to survive the situation in a way that leaves Utah as the only viable government. In other words, they intend to overthrow the United States Govern…”
A loud gasp sounded in the room.
“WAIT, WAIT a minute! What are you saying?!” The man that had held the interest of the President surged from his position. He made as if to climb onto the conference table and then, thinking better of it, as though he would rush around the side.
At this point, the four secret service men that had been positioned strategically within the room intervened. Two grabbed the man from behind. They pushed him to the surface of the table, scattering those in the way. His arms were twisted behind and his face slammed down with a hand on his head. The other two attached themselves to the woman that was standing a few steps to one side. She registered surprise, but glancing at the head of the conference table, and making eye contact with the President, she suddenly relaxed. She had reached understanding. The spectators within the small space had little time to react, but they cleared an area around the activity, trying to avoid impeding the process. Both persons of interest were cuffed quickly, and the security men made as if to remove them.
It was the President’s turn to say, “WAIT! Hold on. I want them to know what’s going to happen.”
The top official of the nation had an abiding grudge to settle. A holdover to his childhood spent in Utah as he went through the elementary grades, the long-simmering anger was one of the few animosities he had ever embraced. There had been many instances of unfairness as he was growing up in a society where he was intentionally made to feel “other.” There was the cross country race that he and his classmate, Franz, had been cheated out of so that a Mormon boy could win. Then the model contest where he was accused of buying his entry where the winner, a Bishop’s son, had. The test he had aced, having been promised a higher grade and then been denied. The times he saw non-Mormons excluded from teams, especially if they were the star players, and they made the Mormon kids look bad. And the topping on the cake, the Bishop that had purchased his father’s business and then failed to pay for it. The courts had never allowed the case to come to trial. His father had visited a top official in The Church and come home a broken man. Their home was bitter after that, even when they moved out of state.
These thoughts raced through his mind as he confronted the room, and especially as he looked at the two who had been feeding classified information back to Utah. Until the report crossed his desk, he had managed to quell any animosities from the past. He had made every effort, successfully, to allay his prejudices. But now they surfaced, and he was glad to feel the heat of his anger.
“I have made the decision to protect the integrity of the government at all costs as I took an oath to do when entering this office.” He stalled for effect as he engaged the attention of the two in cuffs. “Even as we speak, an aircraft is approaching the first city in the United States that will be attacked with a nuclear de…….”
“Nooooo!!!...NOOOO!!!” The shackled man would have fallen to his knees had he been allowed to. The woman stood, stunned. Suddenly she looked directly at the President, focusing and with eyes transformed in rage. She tussled with her captors and tried to spit, unaware in the moment that her mask would prevent the disrespect. The man crumpled in the arms of those holding him, sobbing. The woman straightened, as though in her failure she was filled with pride.
Realizing what was being said, the rest had gone more silent than at any other time in the history of all the extreme pronouncements ever given within these walls. They were paralyzed.
“As I was about to say,” the President continued, “Salt Lake City is the source of the third plague, and in an effort to contain it and the threat posed by a planned overthrow of the government, a nuclear device will be targeted on them within minutes.”
No one spoke, except the shackled man that moaned a low, “No, no, no, no, no…,” while shaking his hanging head in disbelief.
“It will be the first American city in the history of the United States that will be targeted for annihilation, and it will be done by decision of the Office of the President.”
§
Light breezes carried the sands of the Arabian Desert softly over the dunes. Heat shimmering from the surface obscured any long range vision, and the Qahtani were late to the transfer point. The two men sitting on their heels in the full sun waited patiently. Time mattered little to nomads of the southern peninsula.
One played with a small device retrieved earli
er from beneath his robes. The boredom could be diminished. The other considered whether it would be worth the effort to light a small fire of camel dung and heat some water. Coffee would be good. He preferred to savor the drink without interruption, so he might regret his choice if his Kahlani relatives showed up. The orders were to transfer camels, without any physical contact, and return immediately.
Soon the smell of the strong brew wafted into the nose of the man playing games on his device. One of the reasons he enjoyed journeys with his cousin was that he could always be depended on to provide refreshment without any argument over who would make it. The small cup was filled, and a brown arm offered him the lush liquid. He accepted, graciously, as politeness demanded.
The small caravan had left the wadi behind and was now into the dunes. Camels plodding with lazy ease spilled small avalanches down the slopes as they traversed the peaks. After consulting the GPS coordinates in the mechanism implanted behind his ear, the man on the lead camel angled slightly to the east. Within minutes he was rewarded on topping a dune with the sight of the two men sipping from small cups before their tiny fire. Realizing he was late, the man hoped that there was more of the strong drink still available. He wanted to return as soon as possible, but if there was a shortage, he carried a pouch of his own, as well as extra camel dung and water. Besides, there was always time for family.
Disregarding the orders given, the relatives embraced as tradition and manners dictated. Another small, ornate pot joined the first, and the heavily sweetened drink was shared among them.
The demands of courtesy satisfied and the wonderful aftertaste of the rich beans on his tongue, the man that brought the laden camels to the desert rendezvous nudged his camel into a faster gait as he returned by the path he had taken previously. By the time he was at the lip of the wadi to the south, his nose started to gush blood. The bleed was troubling, but the dry desert air sometimes cracked the fine veins in the nose. He tried to staunch the flow as he rode.