"I don't understand. Is there something I don't know, Jacob?"
"Many things I'd expect, but to what specifically are you referring?"
"You're smiling. With all that horror out there, you're smiling."
Jacob finally held the pack up to his mouth and pulled out a single cigarette with his lips. He then pulled the cigarette out of his mouth with fingers that he inspected as if they were new or foreign. When he looked back up Dr. Thomas it was with a troubling calm when juxtaposed by the glowing mushroom clouds that backlit him. He moved slowly toward Dr. Thomas.
"After I became public enemy number one, when the army was sent full force after me, I fled into the night. I knew that there was no one who would take me in. To harbor me was certain death. I had no hope. I came to terms with my certain death… but then I came to the Comanche Reservation and they took me in. I told them that I would be the death of them, but they just smiled. They smiled and made me make a promise. When I began to fight back, when I began the Shadow War against The Government, I tried to leave the Comanche behind. They were lucky to have lived as long as they had, but they just smiled, reminded me of what I'd promised and fought alongside me."
Jacob struggled to reach a hand into the breast pocket of his beautiful suit.
"In the next few days mankind will be saved, if it is saved, by smiling Comanche. Those smiling men have been leading the inoculated, and those left behind, from the cities to underground bunkers and subway tunnels, military compounds and bomb shelters. Most of those smiling men will die. I know this because I know them. I know that despite my orders they will continue out into the chaos and the fires and the explosions in order to save more, and they will die in that action. Tonight the Shadow Army is dying with a big smile on their face."
Jacob sat back down in the chair and carefully ran his hand over his hair.
"They are dying and smiling because I promised that finally they would have revenge on those who destroyed their people and land hundreds of years ago. I promised and because of that, they know that their death won't be in vain. Because I promised, they know that each person they saved will be worth the trouble. Because I promised, they know that I will never kneel or hesitate or stop until everyone on The Island, the people who've killed my people and destroyed my country, just like they did the Comanche, will fall to their knees and beg for mercy. I'm smiling, because I intend to keep that promise."
Jacob now stood over Dr. Thomas, who managed with some difficulty to take a sip of his drink.
"How?"
"One step at a time," Jacob smiled, his hand coming out of his pocket with a lighter awkwardly held.
"Your first step?"
Jacob, cigarette in his mouth, brought up the lighter with stiff fingers and barely achieved the process of lighting it.
"I'm infected, I need a cure. My men are infected, they need a cure. You don't want to die in agony… you need to find a cure."
The lighter fell to the ground and lay shaking between the two men who looked down at the floor, away from the chaos that continued unabated outside, rumbling through the ground and into their chests. Jacob looked at his hands, newly stiff and gnarled.
"That's curious."
Chapter 22
***
“Incoming Ballistic Missiles detected. Impact in seven minutes. Prepare for sealing in five minutes.”
Nestor looked up briefly at the ceiling speakers before he finished breaking the chair that held him. Once free, he checked his wounds and though none of them felt good, none of them were fatal. He managed to stand up and move down the halls.
He found an emergency kit under a sink in a bathroom.
"Three minutes."
Nestor, moving with difficulty, barely able to hold the emergency kit in his weakened state as he moved, made it out the front door with thirty seconds left.
Outside of the door he saw a gym bag, black and large, with a card place neatly on top. Nestor removed the card and squinted.
“Best of luck, Nestor,” the card read in small neatly printed letters.
Inside the gym bag he found a 9mm Beretta pistol, 8 clips, two weeks' worth of military field rations, a water filtration system, a first aid kit, a compass, a map of the surrounding area, a carton of cigarettes, a Leatherman and his old Special Forces knife that had been on him when he was shot.
Nestor stared at the bag in disbelief, until he was brought back to the moment by the sound of the door sealing behind him. He looked up at the sky above, blue for the last time, before the first missile hit off in the distance. The impact of the missile shook the ground and laid him flat. His world turned bright white with a sickly yellow tinge and then it was nothing but darkness.
BOOK TWO
***
"The problem is recognition. To be recognized as the smartest person alive one must spend time doing parlor tricks for idiots. To be recognized as the strongest man alive you have to lift things for the enjoyment of gawking people with cameras and chicken legs. To be recognized as the greatest man alive you have to make life better for the pathetic masses that are too lazy to help themselves, much less do what you tell them. Recognition takes time, which means that when you finally get it, you aren't all that you could have been. You're not as great as your potential had been, because you had to slow down and make your case to all the idiots living their sad little lives in small apartments and bad clothes. But, at the same time, what's the point of being the best if no one knows it?
"Life without recognition is no fun at all. Of course, every now and then, someone thinks they've found a shortcut to recognition - that's where genocide, war and drum solos come from."
- Jacob Rothschild, "Thoughts on The Art of Ruling"
Chapter 23
***
It seemed a lifetime, but when the ground finally stopped shaking Nestor forced himself to sit up. He quickly took in his still and quiet surroundings before opening up the first aid kit and attending to the spots where he was bleeding. Nestor poured alcohol on his bullet wounds. Once they all seemed to be bleeding without obstruction or taint, he took a needle and thread and started sewing. He worked steadily and efficiently, focusing completely on the perfect stitches, the flawed wounds becoming perfect lines. He finished the stitches and then cleaned his scratches and lesser wounds. He felt what was left of his ear without too much sorrow. Once everything was clean again, he took more paper towels and alcohol and re-cleaned his wounds, most of which still seeped blood. He felt weak and wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he forced himself to stand.
Nestor could feel the heat from the radiation that was now mushrooming through the air above him. He looked into the sky and frowned to see a sickly color in all directions. He spat on the ground with a shrug. He squinted from the pulsing manmade suns where the missiles had hit on the horizon. He struggled to breathe as the burning winds carried black soot into his pores.
There now were two men alive who were responsible for the marks on his skin. October Carnegie and Jacob Rothschild. There was nothing that Nestor could do to reverse what Carnegie and his Islanders had done to the sky or the land, or what Carnegie and Rothschild had done to his skin… so he turned his back on Camp David and started walking west in order to make them pay for it.
After an hour he fell for the first time and passed out.
He didn't know where it was he was lying when he came to, but he quickly was able to make out due west and moved on. The woods slowly grew sparse and gave way to roads and innocuous white buildings. Soon there were fires everywhere and Nestor knew he had reached a town, or a city. There were sobs and screams, but Nestor couldn't place any of the sound. He struggled to find a voice that cried out over and over, but never got any closer before it went silent.
Nestor crept onto the porch of an old Victorian house and coughed up ash.
He crawled into the house and, finding it empty, went upstairs and lay in a bed and tried to ignore the sick feeling of dust settling into his lungs and stomach
. Behind his eyes a migraine began beating with bright red pulses. The air seemed to get thicker until breathing was almost impossible. Finally Nestor passed out from a lack of oxygen without any struggle or complaint.
Chapter 24
***
October sat on the edge of his bed, his hands shaking. He had been to the Island's Presidential Mansion a month ago, for the ribbon cutting. In that time, all of his possessions had been moved in and unpacked, placed with care. Just like him. If a man were to sit in this mansion and not look at any screen, he could fool himself into believing this was a real home, a normal place in a normal moment. He could convince himself that outside life was continuing on in a normal way.
October had looked at a screen though.
The screen only showed clouds of sickly yellow… and fire… endless fire. The military drones that supplied the images didn't bother with sound, but if there was any, you could easily guess it would be screaming.
"Are you okay, Mr. President?"
"History is going to remember this day, Miho. How will they see me?"
"You get to decide that, sir. You get to spend the rest of your life making a case for what you've done here."
"And what about all the people who died? Who will make their case?"
"You get to do that to. The victor writes the history books. During the Revolutionary War the British seized New York. It burned down before they could do anything with, or to it. It was remembered as this fortunate event for the Americans, maybe an accident, perhaps God's will - but it was Washington's will. George Washington burned it down rather than let the British have it. When he won the war no one held it against him or brought it up."
"Did I win though? I mean, I don't feel like I won. Or maybe I do. I don't know. I didn't think I would feel so depressed."
"Well, Mr. President, one never knows if they like killing hundreds of millions of people until they've tried it, do they?"
October looked up at Miho's face. Unreadable. No sign of sarcasm or humor, no sign of sympathy either. He looked back down at his hands.
“What now?”
“What do you mean, Mr. President?”
“What comes next?”
"Nothing that can't wait. The world isn't going to move for a while. You could rest. You should rest. When the world starts again it won't be easy."
"Do you have any numbers for me? How many dead?"
"None that are concrete. They are appearing to be… high. As planned."
October stood up and looked out the window of his bedroom. Below him stretched a large, well-manicured green lawn. A brick pathway cut through the middle of it to the outer gate. On the other side of the gate was Carnegie Way, the main thoroughfare of The Island. No one walked the streets or looked out the windows of the building across the road, Founders' Hall. A cloudbank had rolled in and blocked the view of the distant mainland, but there was a glow that pulsed menacingly behind it.
"What have we done? God forgive us for what we've done," October said as he reached out and grabbed a hold of the windowsill to support himself. From the shaking of his back and shoulders Miho suspected that he was crying. She quickly looked down at the screen of her tablet and headed towards the door. She stopped in the doorway and turned back to the man who still leaned heavily against the windowpane, facing the unseen destruction of mankind.
"It will take a few more days to finish counting the dead. Sleep well, Mr. President."
Chapter 25
***
Dr. Thomas woke up to find Jacob sitting on the side of his bed, perfectly tailored, every hair in place. He held in his hand a syringe.
"Do you know what this is, Dr. Thomas?"
"A syringe."
"Not just a syringe, this is one of your syringes, filled with your shot. My Shadow Army was very busy the last days before the missiles fell. When I heard that your inoculation program had been stopped early I assumed you'd leave something behind. I did not expect to find everything, but everything was indeed, right there. So here we find one of your syringes filled with your nasty little drug. The same drug pulsing through my veins right now."
"What are you going to do, Jacob?"
"You see, Doc, I feel like you lack motivation. You want to live. I told you I'd kill you if you didn't cure me. But if you did cure me, what would I do? You're a smart man who's seen me kill people, so, I'm guessing you are appropriately pessimistic. Now, if I gave you my word, why would you take it, when you could just do your work, drag your feet and watch me die - that would be smart."
"So you're going to infect me."
"Motivate you, yes."
"Please, I'll do the work."
Jacob tapped the needle with his finger.
"So then you have nothing to worry about, my dear doctor. You're going to do the work. When you cure the disease, you'll be saved along with the millions and millions of other people you infected. Isn't that a nice story?"
"And if I fail? If I do all I can, but still fail?!"
Jacob turned and laughed into Dr. Thomas's face until tears came from his eyes. He then pulled out a belt, which he held in front of Dr. Thomas.
"You will tie this on, find a vein and inject yourself, Dr. Thomas, or I will kill you in a very painful, impossibly slow way."
Dr. Thomas took the belt and proceeded to follow orders.
"There's a vein!" Jacob laughed holding out the syringe now, "Don't fail. People who fail are idiots. Don't be an idiot. I hate idiots. When October gave you the order to make a fatal shot, you did it. A good little soldier. Do it for me now. Do it for all the people that will die because of you, if you don't. Or do it for yourself, so that you don't die. I don't care. Just do it. Fix me so I can smoke! I'm getting moody."
"And you'll let me go? If I find a cure, you won't kill me?" Dr. Thomas asked with terror trembling in his voice as he pushed down on the plunger filling his own veins with poison.
"I give my word to be practical. I don't kill people I can use. Stay useful and you'll live."
Once the injection was complete Jacob moved to a nearby chair, sat down and pulled out a pack of cigarettes with some difficulty. He held the pack out to Dr. Thomas who continued staring at the red dot on his arm, detached. Finally Dr. Thomas looked at the pack and shook his head.
"I don't smoke."
"Good for you. It shortens the life span. Of course, so does the poison in your veins. So does proximity to me. Anyhow, would you mind then, Doc, pulling a cigarette out for me and placing it in my mouth?"
Dr. Thomas did so with shaking hands. As he did, he began to notice things about Jacob that had changed in the last week. The slight elongation of the canine teeth, the large stiff hands with the jagged looking nails, almost claws, and most disturbing: the eyes… the hungry eyes.
"Thank you, now, please, reach in my front pocket and grab my lighter. Good, now, please, light my cigarette."
Once the whole process was done Jacob sat back, smiled and blew a puff of smoke into the air. Dr. Thomas went and sat down again on the side of his bed, in the corner of his eye glowed the small red dot of injection.
"How do you feel, Jacob?"
"Do you ask because you think I'm a nice person and you're concerned? Or, do you ask because I seem to be turning into a hideous freak monster?"
"The monster thing I guess."
Jacob nodded and moved to the wall mirror and smiled. He moved his face inches from the mirror and inspected his teeth.
"Yeah, that's an odd development. What do you think is happening to me, Doc?"
"I don't know. You aren't… you don't seem, well, human."
"I am only what you made me."
Jacob turned back and stared with cold violent eyes at Dr. Thomas and then smiled. The light gleamed off his large white fangs.
Chapter 26
***
Caleb sat in the little room and stared at the wall. There was no ornament in the room, just bare metal walls and a bed. There was a desk with a chair in the corner.
He had worried that it would be a depressing place to die if the shelter had failed to protect them from the missiles. But, now that it had succeeded in keeping them alive, despite its cold metal esthetic, he found it rather cheerful.
The Earth had finally stopped shaking. He waited for it to start again, but after awhile he started to feel confident that the worst was over. He turned and looked at Nicolette who was asleep, peaceful and angelic. He watched the rise and fall of her stomach, the blanket pulled tight to her chin, as if it protected from more than just cold.
He looked over at the desk. His computer sat beside the lead-lined case, which held the battery for it. The Indian who'd shown them to the underground city had suggested it. He told them, all the people that were willing to follow him, how there was going to be a blast from something called an EMPC that would turn anything with a modern battery into a bomb. Computers, flashlights, even cars would explode when hit with the invisible pulse beamed down from the outer reaches of the atmosphere. Lead could possibly stop it.
Caleb opened the case cautiously, but found the battery intact. Caleb closed the lid again and thought. He stared at the ceiling and pictured the sky that was hidden by the cold metal ceiling above him. In that sky was a weapon that could turn this battery into an explosive, his laptop into a bomb. It was a risk. The Indian had suggested waiting a week before using the battery, saying that the possibility of the EMPC being used again was quite likely. If the Indian was right, this computer could, at any moment, blow up and kill Caleb and Nicolette both, but, if Caleb didn't risk it, he couldn't watch anything.
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