Killer Z

by Miller, Greg L.

  Police and security personnel try directing everyone to follow evacuation routes, but many of the streets are impassable. Kyle shoves through the crowd and approaches the relatively still intact National Museum of Natural History. Fred is relieved to see the truck parked with numerous parking tickets. Kyle runs up the stairs of the Smithsonian.

  “Kyle, where the hell are you going?”

  Kyle yells down the steps, “I have to get something from my office.”

  “Are you crazy? We need to get out of here!”

  Kyle disappears into the building. Fred’s hands shake as he takes out a cigarette. Screams come from the Smithsonian Castle. Various explosions echo through the destroyed city. After a minute he can’t wait and goes inside looking for Kyle. The security check point is abandoned. Dozens of visitors stumble around the rotunda with stunned expressions.

  “Kyle?”

  Broken fossils crunch under his feet as he enters the Early Life exhibit. In the next room a forty foot tall Tyrannosaurus Rex wobbles.

  A muffled cry carries across the Fossil Mammals exhibit, “Please help us! The door won’t open.”

  Fred follows the voice to the bathrooms. The women’s restroom door is jammed shut. He kicks at the door with heavy steel-toe boots but it doesn’t budge.

  “Stay calm lady! I’ll have you out in a jiffy.”

  “Please hurry! It’s dark in here!”

  Fred runs into a hallway and finds a snack shop. An employee limps out of the shop’s smoke filled doorway.

  “A fire in the grilling station,” the guy gasps.

  “There’s folks trapped in the restroom.”

  “Whatever. This place is going to blow,” the man chokes and flees.

  Fred enters the snack shop. A maintenance worker is slumped on the floor, head half crushed. Around the dead man’s waist is a utility belt which Fred reluctantly unfastens. He buckles the belt to his waist and runs to the bathrooms.

  “I’m back!”

  “Thank God, Timmy isn’t breathing well, please get us out of here.”

  Fred examines the screws to see if the door can be unhinged.

  “I’m Fred. How many are with you?”

  “Emily Rothschild, I’m here with my two grandchildren.”

  Fred removes two screws. The hallway fills with smoke. His hands sweat and eyes burn.

  “Emily, are you hurt?”

  “No, but please hurry.”

  “I most definitely am, ma’am.”

  His breath comes in sharply as lungs struggle for clean air. One of the two hinges pops free. Only three screws remain.

  “Fred, it’s getting hot.”

  “There’s a fire. I’m almost there.”

  Within thirty seconds the last screw pops out. Fred slams the door with his left shoulder and it falls inwards revealing an elderly woman and two young children.

  “Oh! Thank you,” she says.

  Emily directs the children to the rotunda and Fred follows, finding Kyle near the exit.

  “Dad, where were you?”

  The boy looks strangely happy and Fred eyes him suspiciously. Kyle adjusts the straps of a backpack on his shoulders.

  “Helping folks, you ready?”

  Kyle nods and they depart through the exit.

  “Dad, where’s your truck?”

  Fred looks around franticly until he sees underneath a crashed fire truck the dangling remains of his bumper and Minnesota license plate.

  “Sweet Jesus, what happened to my truck?”

  “Guess we’re walking after all, old man.”

  10

  Mark and Irina race across the south lawn of the Capitol building with Rebecca and Michael trailing.

  “I need my keys!” Mark says.

  The group follows Mark to the Jefferson Building. The asphalt of the intersection between First and Independence juts out in all directions. Neptune’s Fountain, with its king and assortment of turtles, frogs and serpents, is buried underneath the crumbling marble staircase leading to the main entrance of the Library of Congress. Before the destroyed fountain stands Susan Bishop with a microphone in hand.

  “This is Susan Bishop,” she says intently into the camera, not a hair on her head out of place. “I’m reporting from the Capital where a devastating earthquake has destroyed the city. This fountain was once King Neptune, the Roman god of the sea and brother of Minerva. This is just a small sample of the devastation we are experiencing in the nation’s capital today. There’s still no word on the status of the President or the White House…”

  Mark sprints up the remains of the left staircase.

  “You’re not supposed to use stairs during an earthquake!” Rebecca yells.

  “We need to reach the others before they evacuate,” Mark shouts down.

  “The others would have evacuated already, Mark,” Michael yells.

  “I’m following Mark,” Irina says and climbs the stairs.

  “Why did we have to take the metro?” Michael whines and attempts the stairs with Rebecca.

  Mark pulls on the door handle but it doesn’t open. “We need to find another way in.”

  “Why not try the researcher’s entrance?” Irina asks.

  A security guard appears on the other side of the door glass.

  “Brian, man, let us in!” Mark yells.

  “It’s not any better in here,” Brian calls back through the thick glass.

  Mark whips out his identification card and presses it against the glass.

  “You see this? I work here. You know who I am, let me in.”

  “Ok, ok, hold on,” Brian says and opens the door.

  The group rushes inside the building. Out of habit Mark stops underneath the metal detector. He feels stupid as the guard gives him a sour look. The click of the closing door echoes through the empty lobby. No other security guards man the stations. The tremors subside.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen this place without tour groups wandering around,” Irina says.

  “Where did Brian go?” Mark asks.

  The guard is nowhere to be seen.

  “Nice to know our security guards are keeping their posts,” Michael snorts.

  “It’s an earthquake, we shouldn’t be in here,” Rebecca retorts.

  “Maybe he was stealing rare books?” Irina says, jokingly.

  “This is the Library of Congress. People don’t do that here,” Mark says coolly and straightens his jacket.

  “Ha!” Rebecca snaps. “Michael told me people steal rare books by ripping off the book covers and walking out.”

  Michael shoots Rebecca a dark look. Their shoes echo on the marble as they walk briskly down a corridor towards the Kluge Center. The Bob Hope exhibit is in good condition but the Whittall Pavilion isn’t. A cloud of dust hangs over the broken drywall spilling into the hallway.

  “If we go to the main chamber on the first floor we could use the side hallway,” Mark says.

  They backtrack. Mark steps over broken chunks of marble showing pieces of the statue Athena. The first floor hallway is equally impassable, further frustrating Mark and the others.

  “The only way left to try is the Main Reading Room,” Michael says.

  They walk up a marble staircase. Mark glances over a balcony and sees the unbreakable cases containing the four original Gutenberg Bibles and the Declaration of Independence. Sunlight streams down through cracks in the breaking ceiling.

  “This sucks,” Michael tells Rebecca. “The beauty of the building is being destroyed! You see that over there? It represents the different seasons. It was made by Frank Becket. You see those sayings on that wall and ceiling? They came from the Librarian of the Library.”

  “You know what’s happening might be no different then what happened in cities in Japan, New Zealand, Haiti, Chili, and even California in the last couple of years,” Mark says. “They experienced epic natural disasters, but life went on.”

  “I always liked Cervantes,” Irina pipes. “My favorite i
s Sir Francis Bacon’s quote ‘knowledge is power.’ What are we doing if we can’t get to the office, Mark?”

  “We need to get to our families somehow,” Michael says.

  “My family is in Russia. How do I get home?” Irina asks.

  “I can get you to the Russian Embassy,” Mark says. “Or you can stay with me.”

  Ahead, a streak of sunlight illuminates a mosaic of the Roman goddess of learning and wisdom, Minerva. The guardian of civilization holds a proclamation scroll. Mark stares at Minerva and thinks of how quickly civilization can disintegrate; even this great library which always reminded him of the fabled library of Alexandria.

  “Do you think Sam will be ok?” Rebecca asks.

  “See the sun at the upper left corner of the mural? The darkness recedes and the light creates balance,” Michael answers.

  “How does that relate to us?” Rebecca asks.

  “Light and goodness will prevail,” Mark says. “Come on. We need to go through the Visitor’s Gallery.”

  “Rebecca, the Light will watch over our son,” Michael says, squeezing her hand. “Don’t worry.”

  The Visitor’s Gallery overlooks the library’s main reading chamber. Michael whistles as he points to the deteriorating grand ceiling over the balcony. Only two of the eight statues overlooking the chamber remain. Irina gasps as she looks down. The floor of the main chamber has imploded inwards. Heavy wooden chairs and desks bury a multitude of writhing bodies. Low moans of agony lift from the ground floor.

  “We have to do something for them,” Rebecca says.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Mark says and turns away.

  They walk stiffly down the hallway and turn the corner only to find the way blocked by more collapsed walls. Distraught, the group finally backtracks to the main entrance.

  Rebecca wrinkles her nose and asks, “Do you smell that?”

  “I might be able to crawl through a window,” Irina’s says, her voice carrying a hysterical edge. She rushes down the hallway and tries the door leading to the Graphic Arts Gallery.

  “I smell something too. Irina, wait…” Mark shouts.

  Irina doesn’t listen and opens the door. A blast of heat and flame shoots into the hallway. She screams and falls to the floor as fire devours her. An aftershock ripples through the building and they’re showered with dust, plaster and bits of mosaic. Mark runs across the marble and reaches for her burning mass.

  Michael grabs Mark before he reaches Irina and drags the grieving man towards the stairway leading to the Capitol Building tunnel.

  “You can’t help her! The fire is spreading!” Michael yells.

  Rebecca holds open the heavy emergency door and slams it closed behind them. Mark slumps to the floor and stares blindly at the tiles. Michael gathers Rebecca snugly in his arms and closes his eyes.

  “Let’s go,” Mark says after a moment. His voice is low, rough and full of resolve.

  11

  Larry slumps against the tunnel wall and pulls out a small flask of whiskey. Its artificial heat hits the spot. The Asian kid stands wide-eyed and mute next to him. A thin pole holding a blue identifier flag sticks out of the backpack. It shakes as the kid shakes. Larry rips the pole from the backpack.

  “Ni zai zuo shenme?” the boy asks.

  “Don’t get you’re panties in a bunch kid, it’s just a stupid flag. I found you.”

  “Buyao peng wo! Zhu!” the kid shrills and grabs the broken flag from the floor.

  “Oh shut up, you’re giving me a headache.”

  “Ni wen qilai qilai xiang yige he zuijiu de shu.”

  Pixel, sitting obediently at Larry’s side, whines as the kid drops the flag. Larry doesn’t acknowledge the dog or meet the kid’s eyes but takes a second drink. The whiskey moves through his system with comforting warmth.

  “Wo xiang hui hia?”

  “Are you Japanese or Chinese?”

  “Zhongguo ren! Err, Chinese.”

  “What’s your name?”

  The boy looks at him mutely.

  “Are you in shock? Tell me your name.”

  Larry grabs the kid’s backpack and finds a passport. The name is too long to read or pronounce. The boy points to the passport photo and then to his own chest.

  “How about I call you Chuang for short?”

  Chuang nods.

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Larry gives the backpack and passport to Chuang.

  They walk down the tunnel and turn a corner. He startles at the sight of a nicely dressed woman leaning against the wall. Her shoulders shake and a thick fall of shiny sable hair obscures her features.

  “Are you alright, ma’am?”

  The woman doesn’t answer.

  “Ma’am, I’m a police officer. Can you please respond?”

  The continued silence unnerves him and his hand twitches over his gun. She raises her head and fixes him with red-rimmed, bright blue eyes. Pixel gives her a comforting lick across her cheek. She pets the dog’s thick fur and smiles.

  “You’re a bobby?” Her cool English accent licks over his ears like velvet.

  “A bobby, ma’am? No, I’m a cop. Larry Anderson, D.C. Metro Police.”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean, a police officer. We call you Bobbies back home.”

  A low rumble shakes the tunnel.

  “Ma’am, you should come with us.”

  “I suppose so. Help me up?”

  Her small, smooth hand slips perfectly into his as he helps her to her feet.

  “Thank you. I’m Dr. Mary Kinlan.”

  The slapping of shoes resonates through the tunnel. Pixel gives a sharp bark. An African American man followed by a Caucasian couple hurry towards them.

  “Is there a way out ahead?” Mark gasps. “Mary!”

  Rebecca rushes around Mark and impulsively hugs the British fellow.

  “Mary, you’re ok! How did you end up down here?” Rebecca gushes.

  The two women cling to each other.

  “I don’t know. I just ran...” Mary says.

  Larry looks nervously at the ceiling as several tiles crash to the floor further down the hallway.

  “Who are you people?” Larry asks.

  “I’m Michael. This is my wife, Rebecca. That’s Mark and you’ve already met Mary.”

  “What’s the beautiful dog’s name?” Rebecca asks.

  “Her name is Pixel. How’s the Jefferson Building?”

  “There’s a raging fire,” Michael says. “What about the Capitol Building?”

  “It’s not great,” Larry says.

  “Where’s Irina?” Mary asks.

  “There was an explosion,” Michael says as Mark looks to the floor. “She didn’t make it…”

  “Let’s try the Capital Building,” Mark interrupts.

  Larry thinks they’re stupid but reluctantly follows. A roaring of voices greets them as he opens the doors leading to the Capital Building. As they exit the tunnel they are absorbed into the evacuating crowd.

  The lawn is filled with hundreds of injured, emergency personnel and newly arriving soldiers. Emergency officials try directing the mass of survivors to follow the evacuation route. Officials from various agencies argue over conflicting commands and procedures and nothing is getting done.

  In the middle of the chaos are Susan Bishop and her cameraman. Susan repeatedly thrusts her microphone in the faces of officials but is continually brushed aside. She catches sight of Larry’s uniform and thrusts the microphone in his face.

  “Officer, can you please comment on what’s happening today?”

  Larry blinks and nervously looks around. Mary takes his hand reassuringly. His larger hand tightens around hers.

  “These soldiers are part of the National Response Framework.”

  “What is the National Response Framework?” Susan asks, happy someone’s finally talking.

  “The NRF is a federal agency assigned to deal with the gaps between state and federal agencies during disasters.�
��

  Larry warms to the unexpected spotlight and Mary’s support. In the background several upper level officials heatedly argue as first responders await further instructions. For two minutes he rambles about how FEMA and the America government aren’t properly prepared for disaster mitigation.

  Mary interrupts his two minutes of fame by saying, “Disaster mitigation in America is impossible because politicians don’t bloody care about the people. They only want to be re-elected so they sell out to special interest groups who don’t care.”

  Face turning beet-red, Larry blurts, “Our domestic disaster policies say that each state and city has to deplete local resources before the Federal government gets involved. It’s not the politician’s fault.”

  “Turn that damn camera off,” a soldier barks.

  A second soldier says to Larry, “Get these civilians out of here!”

  With Mary still holding his hand, Larry struts through the disaster strewn streets following the blue evacuation signs as the others follow. Fire billows from the Supreme Court Building’s second floor windows. A man leaps from a window on the third floor and the body smacks into the steps with a thud. Emergency responders check other bodies sprawled on the granite courthouse steps.

  “Film the suicide jumpers, Berry,” Susan says.

  “That’s awful,” Rebecca cries.

  Berry films the devastated courthouse as the others navigate along cracked sidewalks. The Hart Senate building has collapsed on itself. The building’s floors are stacked like flattened pancakes. Dust hangs in the air leaving the taste of chalky drywall. Water mains gush gallons into the street. Smoke, sirens, and mass destruction have warped the regal city into a warzone.

  “It makes sense they’re gathering people at the fallout shelter in Union Station,” Mark says.

  “I don’t want to be buried alive in an underground shelter,” Larry says.

  Outside of Union Station hundreds of people mill around in confusion. A mounted police officer warily watches the crowd with a heavy baton in hand. The cop and horse both look haggard, bruised and scraped.

  Without warning, a filthy man lunges at the mounted officer and sinks his teeth into the man’s thigh. The cop brings his baton down on the assailant’s head repeatedly, forcing the man to step back. The assailant groans and jumps at the horse instead, biting its shoulder. The giant beast rears and bursts into a run, sending the attacker flying backwards.