The Final Day

by William R. Forstchen

  * * *

  The underground cavern, if it could be called that, was illuminated nearly as bright as day and seemed to stretch off into infinity. The road, which had broadened out into four lanes as it went through the curve, emptied into a vast, open underground chamber, the road just continuing straight on until it was actually lost to view. There was a turnoff to the right, an illuminated sign overhead announcing all entering had to first report for decontamination and security clearance. Bob ignored it and up at the front with his troopers just pressed straight on, Bentley dragging Pelligrino along.

  The ceiling overhead arced more than thirty feet high. The spread of the cavern from his left to right was at least several hundred yards or more.

  The broad street was actually lined with barracks. World War II–era wooden barracks, row after row, each two stories high, and strangely, even topped with shingled roofs, interspersed with curved aluminum Quonset huts. At regular intervals, natural stone pillars rose from the floor to the ceiling to support the vast mountain overhead so that the interior almost looked like some strange, surreal, military cathedral.

  All stood in amazement—except for Bob, who looked around, hands on his hips.

  “Like I told you, John,” he said softly, “I was here once, more than twenty-five years ago as part of a drill. This was designed in the 1950s to be the fallback position for the Pentagon in the event of nuclear war.

  “The barracks you see laid out down this road—it’s actually called Main Street—were left over from World War II. After the place was hollowed out, it was felt that the cheapest and easiest thing to do was just build these; we still had hundreds of them as surplus, prefabricated and sitting in a warehouse a couple of hours away. No weather here, no termites, they’ll stand a hundred years or more.

  “Off to the right, there used to be a motor pool, even used to have a couple of old Sherman tanks down here, rigged up as earthmovers if we had to dig our way out if a nuke hit close by. There even used to be old-style electric golf carts for driving around inside. I think that was Ike’s idea.”

  A hundred yards or more down Main Street, a small crowd had gathered.

  “How many are here now?” Bob asked, looking back at Pelligrino.

  “Who?”

  “Civilians, damn it.”

  Again a hesitation. “About fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand. Some leave at times, and others are brought in.” A brief pause, and with Bentley glaring at him, he finally added, “Sir.”

  The man’s features had gone to nearly purple, his knees were shaking, and with a moan, he slowly sank to the ground. The medic ran up to him, knelt down, felt for his pulse, and then looked up at the general.

  “Might be his heart, sir.”

  “Given what I think is here,” Bob said softly, “I have to ask: What heart?” He then announced, “Shoulder all weapons. These are civilians here. Unless he dies on us, drag him along.”

  He gazed down coldly at Pelligrino. “Which way to the command center?” he snapped, and the ailing man pointed straight down Main Street.

  He set off with a purposeful stride, right up the middle of the main street, troopers—with weapons shouldered as ordered—flanking to either side. John trailed along behind him; his friends Reverend Black, Maury, Forrest, Kevin, and Grace, who had disobeyed John’s orders to stay behind and had caught up with the group and was still obviously in shock over Lee’s death, followed behind Bob.

  They passed several of the wooden barracks, relics of what seemed another age. The paint was peeling from the wooden sides, but other than that, they seemed well tended. There were even nameplates tacked to doors.

  John slowed as he passed a Quonset hut on his left. There was a single name tag tacked to the door. He recognized the name. The same as on the personal e-mails that Linda had snatched out of the ether and which had finally led them to this place. Surely it couldn’t be?

  As he stared at the nameplate, similar to the types of nameplates set in front of an officer’s home on a military base, the door cracked open, an anxious young face looking out, a girl in her early teens at most, still gangly like a young colt.

  He smiled at her, and a flicker of a smile creased her slender face as she nervously brushed back an errant wisp of reddish hair. John stopped, his friends staying with him.

  “Are you here to arrest us or something?” she asked.

  He shook his head and gestured toward the front porch as if requesting permission to approach. She hesitated, nodded, and opened the door wider.

  He caught a glimpse of inside the barrack. Though the exterior was of World War II vintage, the interior looked something like a typical living room—a sofa, several chairs, and what appeared to be the back of an old-style television from thirty or more years ago.

  “Don’t worry, young lady. There was a misunderstanding, but it’s been settled. You’re perfectly safe.”

  He spared a quick glance back down Main Street. Bob had gone far ahead of him, surrounded by the troopers who had entered with him. John looked over his shoulder. His friends, however, had lingered behind, waiting for him out on the street.

  Grace was still with him, and it was she who broke the tension.

  “Hi. My name is Grace,” she announced in a warm, friendly voice, and she simply stepped past John, advanced up a step onto the porch, and extended her hand.

  The nervous smile on the young girl’s face within the hut broadened slightly. She opened the door wider and took a step out, reached forward, and politely shook Grace’s hand.

  “You sure everything is okay?” the girl asked. “We heard gunshots.”

  “We?” John asked.

  “I live here with my mother and two kid brothers. The emergency siren went off. Our teacher told us to go to the shelter, but I ran home to get Buster before going to the shelter area, because sometimes we’re in there for a day or two and I can’t sleep without Buster, and then I heard shooting.”

  “Who is Buster?” John asked.

  She hesitated, a bit embarrassed.

  “It’s okay,” Grace said softly.

  The girl reached behind her and then produced a stuffed bear, obviously well worn from constant loving attention, and her features turning red with embarrassment.

  The gesture, the sight of her holding the stuffed bear, struck John like an electric shock, and he lowered his voice. “It’s okay, young lady. My daughter had a friend like him named Rabs.” He could barely get the words out.

  Among his friends, there was no one who did not know about Rabs, his daughter’s beloved stuffed companion who sat on the windowsill in the sunroom and watched over her grave, and which John had gone back into his burning home to retrieve, more cherished to him than any other memory of the past.

  Maury came up to John’s side.

  “You’re about the same age as my son, who is eleven,” he said. “He won’t admit it, but he has a friend like yours—a panda named Pandi—that sits on his nightstand. It’s okay, young lady.”

  “I’m twelve. My name is Laura.”

  “We’re pleased to meet you, Laura,” John interjected. “Don’t be anxious; everything is okay now. Just a misunderstanding, and no one was hurt. We’re just visiting here.”

  “That’s good,” Laura replied, still obviously a bit rattled. “When I heard the shooting and I wasn’t in the shelter area, I went to the far corner of the room and curled up behind the sofa with Buster as we were drilled to do and waited for the all clear. But I haven’t heard the all clear.”

  “I think it might be broken,” Grace replied. “They should have sounded it by now.”

  “Should I go to the shelter?” she asked.

  “If you would feel more comfortable,” Grace said smoothly. “If you want, I’ll walk you there.”

  “Okay.”

  Grace took another step up, reached out, and put a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder and then looked down at Buster. “I have a bear almost just like him,” she said warmly, and t
here was genuine emotion in her voice. “Mine is named Winnie. How did Buster get his name?”

  Laura instantly began to choke up, tears coming to her eyes. “They kept telling me that they would go back and get our dog, Buster, and bring him here, but they never did.”

  She started to cry, and Grace gently embraced her.

  “Come on, let me help you to where the shelter is, but you’ll have to show me the way.”

  She nodded, sniffing back tears, clutching tight to Buster.

  John struggled with his own emotions. The frightened girl was the same age as his Jennifer. At least the same age as Jennifer was when she was still alive … and dying.

  Something she said forced the question he had to ask, sensing that if there were going to be straight answers, it would be here and now from this girl.

  “How did you get here, Laura? You haven’t always lived here.”

  “Some men came to our school and called out my name and those of a few other kids. And now I’m here.”

  John knelt down in front of her, looking up at Grace, shaking his head slightly for her to wait. Grace picked up on the signal, stopping in place, a protective arm around Laura, holding her tightly to reassure her.

  “Can I see Buster?” John asked. Laura reluctantly held him out, and John took him.

  It was nearly impossible to keep his own emotions in check. The scent of the stuffed bear, the worn fabric, a bent ear that had obviously been stitched back into place. For a moment, in his heart, Buster was Rabs.

  He kissed Buster and handed him back to Laura with a whispered, “Thank you.”

  She snatched him back, but her eyes were on John. “Are you okay, mister?” she asked.

  John could only nod.

  “He misses his daughter,” Maury said, voice thick with emotion as well.

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s back home in North Carolina,” Maury quickly interjected, sparing John from giving a more honest answer.

  John took a deep breath and forced a smile. “So you were in school, some men came in, called out your name, and you left with them. Is that it?”

  Laura nodded.

  “Where did you go to school, Laura?” Maury asked.

  “Sidwell Friends in Washington.”

  “And why did the men take you out of class?”

  “It was all kind of scary. We all knew the men. They work for the Secret Service.”

  “Secret Service?” John asked, startled but trying to not let it show.

  “Yes, sir. They’re always there because the president’s kids go there too. The men are very nice to us, though it’s a bit scary at times since we all know they have guns on them. One of them would always sit in the back of the classroom where the president’s kids were in class. Out on the playground, they’d even bat some balls for us, so we all knew them.”

  “So the Secret Service men took you out of your classes?”

  “Did anyone else go with you?” Maury interjected.

  “Yes, sir. About twenty or so. They said we were going on a special trip.” She clutched Buster a bit tighter. “They let me bring my backpack, and I had Buster in there, so he came with me.”

  “And then what happened, Laura?”

  “We went out to the ball field behind the school, and there were two helicopters there, and they had me get on board.”

  “Just you?”

  “Oh, no, sir. About twenty kids or so.”

  “The president’s kids as well?”

  “No, sir. We thought it strange, but they were left behind.”

  “And then?”

  “We flew here. It was a fun ride. The Secret Service men told us to buckle in tight, that it was going to be like a roller-coaster ride, and it sure was. My friend Becky threw up all over the place.” She smiled at the memory.

  “Where did you go on this ride?”

  “Here. We landed outside, and they had us run in here. It was a bit scary; there were some men with guns outside. They had us get into the backs of a couple of trucks and brought us down inside here.”

  “Laura, when did you take this helicopter ride, and how long have you been here?”

  She looked around, suddenly a bit nervous. “We were told we’re not supposed to talk about it, sir.”

  “Laura.” It was Grace now, bending over to face the girl at eye level. “It’s okay, sweetie. You can share it with us. Mr. Matherson trusts you, and I do too.”

  Laura was silent for a moment, and tears began to well up. “It was a scary day. We were taken to what they call the shelter here. All day long, more kids were coming in, parents, some old people. I had to put on a large name tag that hung from my neck with my parents’ names on it.

  “Finally, I saw my mom with my two little brothers. She had one suitcase for all of us”—she paused, welling up—“but Buster, our dog, wasn’t with her. She was crying and told me that Daddy was safe but in another place. Then they told us they had to shut off all the electricity for a day, except for emergency lights, and we all slept in the shelter area.”

  “What day was this?” John asked, and now his voice was insistent, growing impatient.

  She just stared at him.

  “Laura, sweetheart. What day did this happen?” Grace asked softly.

  “The day the war started,” she whispered.

  “When on that day?” John pressed, trying not to sound insistent and frighten the girl. “What time of day did the helicopters take you away from your school?”

  Again silence.

  “When?” This time, he nearly shouted the question so that she blanched and began to cry again. Grace shot a look of admonishment at him, and she moved between the girl and John.

  John felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked back, and it was Forrest, who shook his head and pulled him back.

  “I’m sorry, Laura,” John said softly, standing up and backing away.

  “We’re all sorry if we scared you, Laura,” Grace pressed. “It is just we want to learn the truth, and we trust you to tell us that. Okay?”

  “It was in the morning,” she whispered. “I don’t know. Classes started at 8:15. About an hour later, we heard the helicopters landing outside, and some of us were told to leave with the Secret Service men.”

  “My God,” Maury whispered. “Before ten in the morning?”

  John could only nod as he struggled to absorb all that what she said implied.

  “What about the other children in the school who didn’t go with you?” Grace asked.

  “I don’t know. We were told they were safe, but we never saw any of them again.” There was a pause. “You’re from the outside?” she asked plaintively. “My best friend, Halle, didn’t go with us. Are they safe? I wanted to send an e-mail to my friends that didn’t go, but I was told only official things can go out on e-mail, but someday soon I can see them again.”

  With that, John turned away, unable to hide his pain, his rage. It was not the girl’s fault. The kid was terrified by this encounter. It was not her fault, but as he looked back at her, he could see his Jennifer standing there.

  Forrest, with a firm hand on John’s shoulder, led him back out into the middle of the street that went the entire length of the deep underground cavern.

  “Do you know what this means?” John snarled. “Do you know what this means?”

  Forrest, features emotionless, could only nod.

  “They knew. At least some of the damn bastards knew. They got theirs out at ten in the morning of that day and hid them here before the shit hit the fan. They knew!”

  He shouted out the last words. Several of Bob’s troopers who had lingered behind to secure the entryway tunnel were standing close by, and he could see in their eyes, their features, that the truth was dawning on them as well. One of them was crying, cursing foully about his own wife and newborn son, an unrelenting stream of obscenities, a comrade holding him tightly, telling him to let it go.

  John was feeling the same rage.

&nb
sp; On the Day, it had been like any other day but for one great difference: it was Jennifer’s twelfth birthday. After teaching his early afternoon class on such a beautiful warm spring day with half of his students dreamily looking out the window, he had gone down to the village and at a favorite store purchased twelve Beanie Babies for his daughter and raced home to be there before she arrived. Jen, dear now-gone Jen, his first wife’s mother and such a beloved grandmother to Jennifer, had arrived as well to greet their birthday girl.

  The rest of that final afternoon of peace had unfolded without incident. Jennifer and a friend had gone up into the neighbor’s orchard to play with the family’s two golden retrievers while he grilled up some burgers and hot dogs for dinner. Then Bob Scales, the same Bob Scales who just an hour ago had led the assault on this facility, had called from the Pentagon to wish Jennifer a happy birthday.

  They had then chatted. There was no warning, no Bob sending some sort of coded message that the shit was about to hit the fan and to get ready. Just a friendly chat until suddenly it was obvious even Bob was being caught off guard. Some shouts of panic in the background from Bob’s end, his suddenly saying, “Something’s up. Got a problem here. I gotta…” and then the line went dead.

  The war, the Day, had begun for John and the rest of the nation as all power just went off, the sound of traffic on the interstate drifting into silence, a few minutes later a puff of smoke rising from a distant ridgetop, to be learned later it was a commercial jet that had gone in, killing all aboard, one of a couple of thousand jets going down across America.

  All of it coming to a stop … at just after four in the afternoon … hours after young Laura said that she had been evacuated to safety.

  And yet now, at this moment, after two and a half years of struggling to survive, to reluctantly rising to being essentially an emergency dictator of his town, of having to personally execute a thieving drug addict only days after it started, to carrying his dying father-in-law out of a dying nursing home where the dead were literally decaying on the beds where they had been left to die because no one could help them … to all the starving, the death, the fending off lone marauders that devolved into wandering gangs of hundreds who would actually kill someone so they could feast upon them … and then to hold his twelve-year-old daughter as she died for want of a single vial of insulin, while down here, a select few were hidden away before it had even started and had lived comfortably since?