by D C Alden
A deep, seismic boom travelled across the water. A moment later a ball of flame boiled up over the densely-packed buildings somewhere near People’s Square. Marion thought she heard a collective roar of voices but she couldn’t be sure.
‘My God, this is getting bad,’ Beatty said as other passengers crowded the rail around them.
But Marion wasn’t listening. All she could think of was escaping the city. They could take a car, drive south, but the closest land border was Vietnam, almost twelve-hundred miles away. The chances of them making it that far unmolested were slim.
No, they would escape by boat, she decided. South Korea was only three-hundred miles across the East China Sea. When the ferry docked she would use Beatty’s linguistic skills and her money, and they would find a vessel big enough to get them there. Beatty would have to be terminated on arrival, of course. She couldn’t risk him talking about her to anybody.
So, Plan C then.
The ferry continued across the Huangpu River, leaving the west of the city in its steady wake, where the tentacles of bloodshed and disease were already snaking through the streets behind them.
‘What’s wrong with him?’
Coffman had to shout to make herself heard above the roar of aircraft and the cold wind that gusted across Joint Base Andrews. A short distance away, a gaggle of dark coats were gathered around Mulholland’s prone body, checking his vitals.
Coffman was confused. One moment Erik had been walking beside her as they hurried towards Air Force One, the next, he was clutching at her coat sleeve before sprawling onto the tarmac. She’d rushed to his side; McCarthy had tried to force her on to the plane but Coffman was having none of it.
As the rest of her party boarded the idling Boeing 747-8, the President stood a few yards away, watching her Chief of Staff being treated by the Secret Service detail. It wasn’t the virus, she knew that much, but obviously she couldn’t share that knowledge with anyone else.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Coffman yelled again, her words snatched away by the strengthening wind. There was a storm headed in from the Atlantic, one that was expected to dump snow as it reached landfall. Departure was a priority, but instead she was watching Erik convulse on the ground.
McCarthy broke away and marched towards her. ‘Looks like Mr Mulholland has had some kind of seizure. He’s conscious and breathing, but I wouldn’t advise further travel, ma’am. There’s a medical unit here at — ’
‘No,’ Coffman shouted above the noise. ‘I want him taken care of by the White House team at Bethesda. Use Marine One to get him there.’
McCarthy nodded. ’The base medic is inbound. I advise he travel with Mr Mulholland.’
‘So, get him off the goddamn ground and into that helicopter,’ Coffman yelled, pointing at the idling Blackhawk.
McCarthy ran back to the huddle. A moment later Mulholland was being manhandled towards the helicopter. McCarthy ran back to Coffman’s side. ‘We should leave, ma’am. We have a very tight weather window and it’s closing fast.’
She took another look at Erik, but all she could see were his shoes. She found it difficult to leave him like that, but McCarthy was insistent, so she hurried towards the aircraft as the first snow flurries began to swirl across the air base. The engines began to rise in pitch as she stepped inside. Schultz was waiting for her.
‘How is he?’
‘My office,’ she pointed.
The Chief Master Sergeant briefed her as he escorted Coffman through the plane. ‘The captain advises immediate take off, ma’am.’
‘Tell him we’re ready,’ Coffman replied, handing him her coat. ‘And bring coffee.’ She sat behind her desk and Schultz took a seat opposite. Her private office was a warm, soundproofed space decorated in beige with brown furniture. She glanced out of the window and saw they were already moving.
Schultz swung one leg over the other. He wore slacks and a roll-neck sweater, as if he were embarking on a winter vacation. ‘What’s the prognosis?’
‘Some kind of seizure, they think. He’s not been himself lately. Have you noticed?’
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine.’
The room vibrated as the aircraft gathered speed along the runway. ‘I saw him watching videos, the ones from Texas. He seems obsessed.’
A steward tapped on the door and entered with a tray of coffee. Schultz waited until the man had left the room before speaking.
‘Can I be frank, ma’am?’
Coffman settled back into her chair and waited.
‘I think Erik has lost his nerve. It’s no secret that the events in Baghdad spooked him, but now the stakes are much higher. As someone who has commanded men at every level, my gut is telling me Erik is cracking under the pressure. What we saw out there was some sort of nervous breakdown. He just isn’t cut out for this.’ Schultz held up his hands. ‘Just my opinion, ma’am.’
Distracted by the conversation, Coffman hadn’t even noticed they were off the ground and climbing. Below her, the lights of Washington DC stretched into the distance, and then they fell away as the wing tipped upwards and the plane banked towards the south.
‘I’ve had my doubts too,’ Coffman confessed. ‘It’s hard for me, Charlie. Erik’s been by my side since the beginning. He also knows the decisions I’ve made to get to this point. He’s a deep font of knowledge when it comes to Amy Coffman, more so than other person in my career. If anyone has got the goods on me, it’s Erik.’
Schultz’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
It took a moment for the implication to sink in. Coffman shook her head. ‘Good God, no. I want him watched, that’s all. Discreetly. Take care of it, would you Charlie?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The phone on her desk warbled and Coffman picked it up. ‘Put him through.’ She listened for several moments then thanked the caller, setting the phone back in its cradle.
‘That was Jim at Langley. Philip took a swan dive off the back of the Independence. The body is still missing.’
Schultz swallowed. ‘Did he talk?’
Coffman shook her head. ‘I’ll say one thing, Bob’s people are pros. So, how exposed are we?’
‘Marion is the only link to Bob and Matt, and we have to assume she can prove it. The Brit is talking, but like all the other eco-nuts he thinks he was saving the world, which shores up the terrorist angle. Matt is on his way out, Bob we can flatter to deceive, which leaves you, me, Karen and Erik. Karen would kill for you, and I already have, so if you’re asking me where our Achilles heels lies, my money’s on Erik.’
Coffman leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee. She knew deep down that she wouldn’t give that order. Erik had become part of her DNA. Even thinking about green-lighting his murder made her feel nauseous.
‘You’re reluctant,’ Schultz observed, ‘I get that. Erik’s as loyal as they come, but no one can predict how a mental health issue can affect a person’s judgement. It can change them dramatically.’
Coffman stared over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘Thank you, Charlie.’
Schultz took the hint and got to his feet. He closed the door behind him and Coffman was alone.
She glanced at the altitude indicator on the wall; thirty-one thousand feet and still bumping up through the clouds. Erik should be in the hospital by now, and Coffman would call for an update when they touched down in Denver. As soon as he was well enough he would join her at Snowcat. She would schedule a private dinner and they would sit and talk. She would express her concern for his health and then she would offer him the opportunity to disappear.
They would use a doppelgänger in the interim, someone who could pass muster for the long-lens shots. Karen would get the bump to temporary Chief of Staff, by which time Erik would be long gone; an extended sabbatical, a personal issue, something that wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. Then he could get on with his life. She would always be there for him, at the end of a phone, day or night, and when he was
ready to come back, the door would be open.
Yes, she decided, that is how the Erik issue would be resolved. She had no doubt Schultz and Bob would feel a lot more comfortable if Erik slipped in the bath and broke his neck, but Coffman wouldn’t allow that. Erik Mulholland had been her friend and confidant for a quarter of a century.
Nothing was going to change that.
Don’t Tread On Me
By the time Ray Wilson reached the farm outside of Ropesville he was on the verge of collapse.
His shirt and trousers were filthy, his shoes caked in mud, and he stumbled through the dark with his arms wrapped around his body. He was hungry, and nauseous, and cold, and sweaty. His face and hands were lacerated in several places, the result of stumbling through black woods on a moonless night. He’d clambered over barbed wire fences and waded through freezing streams. He’d twisted an ankle, not badly enough to stop him, but the limp slowed him down. He’d been tempted to stop many times, to lie down on a grass verge or in the lee of an isolated barn, but he knew that if he did he may not open his eyes again. So he kept going.
And he had to be careful too. Knocking on the door of an isolated Texan farm in the dead of night was risky enough at the best of times, but that risk was multiplied a hundred fold in the grip of the current madness. People would be scared, and any notions of Christian charity would’ve disappeared the moment the United States government started bombing Lubbock. Outside of that unfortunate city, countryfolk wouldn’t think twice about violently defending their home and hearth.
The first farm he came to was cloaked in darkness, and as he quietly skirted a nearby cattle pen he saw dozens of pickups parked outside the dilapidated main house. There were lights on behind drawn curtains, and Ray heard raucous laughter and gutter language. He imagined a wild bunch of good ol’ boys s gathered around a kitchen table stacked with guns, sinking suds and discussing their post-apocalyptic strategy for survival. In Ray’s case that probably meant shooting first and high-fiving each other afterwards. When a dog began barking he turned on his tail and scuttled back into the darkness.
He used roads where he could, both dirt and tarmac. He knew Route 82 was somewhere off to his right, and when he drifted closer he could see military vehicles moving along the highway. Ray had no intention of interacting with soldiers any time soon. The violent deaths of his former travelling companions were still fresh in his mind, and it was the fear of his own life ending in a cold Texas field that kept his feet moving.
The second farm he came across had a couple of police cruisers parked outside, so Ray avoided that one too, looping out towards the distant highway before heading south again. He must’ve trudged another three or four miles before he reached a dirt road that headed due west. This one had a post-and-wire fence running alongside side of it, and Ray decided it had to lead somewhere. He had no idea how long he followed that fence for, but he was staggering past the building before he noticed it. The ranch gate was a wide cattle-grid flanked by two huge granite boulders. The gate was open, and Ray weaved onto the property. He had nothing left. Either way, it was here he would drop.
There were three vehicles parked in front of a large ranch house. Ray couldn’t see any lights, but his foggy mind registered neat grass verges and white woodwork. A Lone Star flag rustled atop a flagpole in front of the farmhouse, and below it, a yellow Gadsden flag, a coiled rattlesnake with the motto Don’t Tread On Me.
He put his hand on the rail and pulled himself up onto the porch. His head swam. The voice behind him was calm and measured, and as cold as the Texas wind.
‘That’s far enough, friend.’
Ray held on to the rail, swaying on legs that felt hollow. He didn’t turn around when he spoke. ‘My name is Ray Wilson.’
All Ray could hear was the tapping of the flagpole in the breeze. Such a cold breeze too. He shivered.
‘Have you come from Lubbock?’
Ray closed his eyes and braced himself for a bullet. ‘Yes.’
‘How did you get here? Government’s got eyes on every road. Drones too, flying all over yonder.’
‘Lucky, I guess.’
‘Are you being smart with me, son?’
Ray opened his eyes again, but he didn’t have the strength to lift his head. His fingers slipped from the rail and he folded to the porch. He lay there in a heap, unable to move anything but his lips. ‘Just let me sleep, please. I’ll be no trouble to you.’
He closed his eyes, and then he heard sharp voices. He felt himself lifted off the deck, heard the creak of the porch screen, felt a wondrous blanket of warmth envelop him as strong hands helped him inside. He glimpsed men, women and children, and mumbled another apology. He heard other voices, concerned, professional. They carried him into a room and laid him down on a large bed. His filthy clothes were removed and someone shone a bright light into his eyes. A t-shirt and shorts were pulled over his naked body. Ray had no control over what was happening to him, and neither did he care. All that mattered was the soft pillow he sank into and the warm duvet that covered him.
He finally gave in to the exhaustion that whispered his name. He took its offered hand and let it lead him into the void. Behind him, the voices grew fainter. The light dimmed. Before it went completely, he turned his head.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
And then the darkness was complete.
‘My God, look at them. Jesus Christ.’
‘This is awful. There must be something we can do.’
The video wall dominated the Situation Room, the high-definition feeds broadcast live from military helicopters and drones over Lubbock.
Dawn had revealed the aftermath of the previous night’s outbreak in horrific detail. Downtown was a landscape of shattered buildings, some stripped naked of glass and concrete. The Wells Fargo and Metro Tower buildings stood burning as fires raged across several floors. Others had collapsed, forming mountains of rubble that blocked whole city streets. There were bodies everywhere, most dead, some moving, the infected, wounded and crippled, dragging themselves across roads and sidewalks. More fires raged across southern Lubbock, driven by a strengthening westerly wind, forcing survivors to flee their homes and hiding places. There were gasps from the assembled politicians as those people, those desperate families, were hunted down by large groups of infected through the smoke-filled suburbs. The elderly were abandoned first, and men with guns and other weapons fought savagely to buy time for their wives and children. None of them made it, Coffman saw.
There were other feeds too, Fox and MSNBC, CNN and all the other major networks, plus a couple of local affiliates, but the media were being kept outside of the containment zone. All their viewers could see were distant smudges of smoke on the far horizon. Electrical power to Lubbock was still cut, and every conceivable communication channel had been shut down. The city was still a black hole, a decision justified by the need to prevent further national panic, and the scattered incidents of civil unrest already triggered by the crisis. That fear played beautifully into Coffman’s hands.
She studied the drawn, frightened faces of her Security Council gathered around the granite conference table. Assistants and advisors shuttled between them and the surrounding shadows, relaying printouts and whispered messages. It was like a scene from a movie, the lair of a particularly audacious Bond villain, and Coffman thought that was appropriate, given what she was attempting to accomplish. And she felt safe here, far from any population centre, perched high above the surrounding, empty valleys. The Marine guard had been bolstered in number and further reinforced by four Apache gunships. In light of what was happening in Texas — and its potential to spread — temporarily relocating the Security Council to Colorado had been an easy sell. If things got out of hand the Cabinet would follow, and the 10th Mountain Division were on standby to deploy to Snowcat.
With every passing hour the infected were sucking more and more people into their ranks. Estimates put the figure at somewhere between forty and fifty-thou
sand. The Pentagon had also submitted their latest bomb damage assessments and casualty estimates via video link, and they didn’t look too good either. Coffman was uninterested in the numbers, but she was interested in public opinion. This had to be played right.
She tapped her finger on the microphone stalk in front of her and her voice filled the cavern. ‘Outside of Texas, how are the public reacting to the crisis?’
Attentions were refocused around the table. Homeland Security chief Grady was the first to speak.
‘In a word, appalled,’ she began. ‘News of the bombing is not going down well at all, and conspiracy theorists are dominating the conversation. Much of it is anti-government talk, abuse of power, constitutional betrayal and suchlike, and in light of the information vacuum, the media are repeating it.’
‘They’re pissed because they’ve been denied access,’ Karen Baranski countered. ‘Nevertheless, it’s hurting us.’
‘Public opinion is not a priority,’ SecDef Clark countered. ‘What the country needs is reassurance. The terrorists are still out there.’
You’re right, Coffman admitted silently. The faces around the table agreed with Clark. Individually they were safe here in the mountains, but their families were still in DC and elsewhere. They were scared, and Coffman couldn’t blame them for that.
Her eyes were drawn back to the video wall. On the main screen she watched a huge river of infected pouring through a landscape of rubble and shattered buildings. On the periphery they snapped and lunged at each other like animals. And then there was the fucking, like gang rapes but with willing participants. Coffman’s mind was pretty blown by it all, and again she speculated on the outcome of such a liaison. It was something to be considered seriously, and Coffman had no doubt that when academia eventually gained access to the material, they would certainly attempt to explore the phenomena further. To the point of birth, the President speculated. But that was for the future.
‘Let’s deal with the immediate situation in Texas. Admiral?’