Authors: Michael Bray
The President paused, and referred to his notes in front of him on the podium before going on.
"Make no mistake. Our military forces and those of our neighbours will engage this threat with extreme prejudice, and consider all acts of aggression perpetrated by this new group as terrorism of the highest order. In an unprecedented move, we have decided to unite as one and share information in order to combat this devastating new enemy."
The President remained calm as he referred to his notes, knowing the next passage was the one which would potentially cause chaos. With a show of outward calm which betrayed his true feelings, he went on.
"You will notice I used the word devastating, a word which I wouldn’t use unless there was a specific need to do so. This is one of those times. After consulting with my fellow world leaders and analysing intelligence data, we have reason to believe that our attackers, this as yet unknown group, are infected with a highly potent, highly contagious virus, a virus which if allowed to spread could conceivably lead to the extinction of mankind on a global scale."
He paused, letting the words sink in, knowing that already people would be panicking, others barricading themselves inside their homes or trying to get to relatives.
"At this time, I urge you to remain calm. Plans are in place to control this situation and eliminate this new threat as quickly and efficiently as possible. It is because of such unique circumstances that after deliberating with my cabinet, I have decided to invoke a nationwide state of martial law."
"Jesus," Draven muttered as he stared at the television screen.
"Furthermore, there will be an eight p.m. curfew until further notice. Troops will be patrolling the streets and looking to engage our attackers in small arms combat. You are urged to stay in your homes. Keep doors locked and ensure you are protected. Anyone caught looting, anyone seeing this situation as an excuse to break the law, will be punished. Food banks will be in operation in designated safe zones just as soon as our forces have secured the various communities within our nation. Remember, this is a pre-emptive motion to ensure the security of not just our country, but our world. Many of you will not be affected by this. Those who are will be protected by the brave men and women of the United States military. Forces will initially be located in the following cities."
As the President reeled off the list of cities, Vice President Carter stood at the side of the stage with Chief of Staff Morrison. Carter leaned closer to the chief of staff, wrinkling his nose at the older man’s overpowering aftershave.
"This is a mistake," Carter whispered. "All this will do is cause chaos on the streets and make the job even harder."
"It was going to happen eventually," Morrison said. "The public are already getting twitchy. Maybe this is the right call."
"Come on," Carter said with a grin. "You and I both know the old man has lost it. This is just the latest in a long line of bad calls."
Morrison turned to face the vice president. "You should be careful saying things like that. If the President ever found out-"
"Come on Eamon, forget protocol for a second. Man to man, off the record. Do you think we should have gone for a more aggressive strategy?"
Morrison chewed his bottom lip and fidgeted. "Maybe it might have been better to stamp this out before it got out of hand."
"Exactly," Carter said, flicking his eyes to the president as he went on addressing the nation. "I grew up on a farm in Kansas, and my father used to always keep dozens of rat traps in the barn. I mean, he had tons of the things. I always wondered why he had so many. I remember asking him about it one day. He told me he would rather kill the rats before they can breed otherwise they would infest the entire farm."
"What are you saying?" Morrison asked.
"I’m saying even though I’m sure the president thinks he's doing the right thing, all the time wasted on this small arms street-level warfare is giving the rats time to breed. If we're not careful, pretty soon we won’t have enough traps to stop them."
Morrison hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Even if I agreed with you - which for the record, I don’t necessarily, - but just say I did. What would you suggest we do? He's the commander in chief. He makes the decisions."
"This isn’t about decisions or about who gets to sit in the oval office. This is about the survival of our species. The problem is, as admirable as it is, the president wants to resolve this without any casualties. As much as we all want that, it's unrealistic. My worry is if these people are as contagious as we suspect, then soon enough we won’t have the ability to stop them." Carter smiled as he clapped Morrison on the shoulder. "Now I don’t know about you, but to me, a few hundred dead civilians is an acceptable loss if it means wiping these freaks out and restoring order."
Morrison frowned, and Carter had to force himself not to smile. He had seen that look before. It was a look of a man who was rethinking his opinion.
"Even so, it doesn’t change the fact that we have no power here. We're duty bound."
"Oh, I wouldn’t dream of doing anything to jeopardise that. All I’m saying is that in circumstances as extreme as this, it might pay to be prepared."
"What did you have in mind?" Morrison asked.
"I’m about to take a chopper out to the Pentagon to meet with General Shaw. Like me, he's a man who is aware of the huge potential risk of allowing this situation to get out of hand. I want to make sure that if and when the President changes his mind and decides more decisive action is needed, we have it ready to go. Call it a contingency plan."
"Won’t the President need you here?"
Carter snorted and stifled a smile. "He doesn’t need me or my opinions. Whatever happens from here on in, he'll be making up his own mind about what’s best for the country. My job as vice president is to be there with an alternative plan if he fails."
"Look, Paul, I understand what you're trying to do here, I really do, but don’t you think you should be cautious? You don’t want to be seen as undermining the president."
"Of course not," Carter agreed. "As I said, it's just a contingency plan. God knows, it pays to be prepared."
"Fair enough, I’m not entirely sure why you're telling me anyway."
Carter pulled his wallet out of his pocket and opened it up, showing Morrison the photograph in the plastic sleeve. "My wife and our two kids, Amy and Aaron. I spoke to her this morning and she's scared. She's relying on me to keep them safe. Do you have kids? A wife?"
"I have a partner, yes. His name is David." Morrison said, holding Carters gaze to see how he would react. Somehow hiding his surprise, Carter went on.
"Exactly. Don’t you think David would want you to do what’s right to make this country safe? To make him safe?"
"He doesn’t know much about this, or, at least, I don’t think so. He's on business in New York. I get the point, though."
"All I’m saying is that when it comes to my family, I trust my own instinct when it comes to protecting them, no matter who has the title of commander in chief. As a human being, it's my right to do whatever it takes to protect my family. As I’m sure you would want to do too. Do you see what I’m saying Eamon?"
"I do, I get it," Morrison said with a sigh. "I don’t think I can do anything about it, though. Maybe it would have been better if I didn’t know how you felt about it."
"As chief of staff, you have a right to know. I’m just making sure people - good people like you and David and everyone else who works here - are aware that I tried to fight for an alternative plan of action prior to the President making his decision."
Morrison nodded. Carter let him think. He could see the chief of staff processing the information. A quote from the Greek poet Aeschylus came to mind.
From a small seed, a mighty trunk may grow.
Under the circumstances, it was quite apt, especially as this seed, the seed of doubt, had been planted well.
"Anyway, I have to go," Carter said with a sigh. "I’m due to meet with Shaw in an hour. Keep me informed of any developments would you?"
"Of course. I'll keep you in the loop." Morrison muttered, still watering and waiting for said seed to blossom.
"Thanks, I appreciate it," Carter said as he took a last look at the president then left the conference room, hoping against hope General Shaw was more inclined to see that the lack of decisive action by the commander in chief could have disastrous repercussions.
Back in Herman’s trailer, the trio watched as a tired-looking President Fitzgerald finished his address and walked out of camera shot.
"This is crazy," Draven said.
"Something must have happened. Things were fairly calm when I came out to find you." Kate replied.
"It’s the contagion." Herman cut in. "My guess is they never figured how easy it was to spread this shit around. Now good old Mr. President is shittin' bricks and looking to resolve this quick so he can stay ahead in the opinion polls."
"Not everything has an ulterior motive you know." Kate snapped.
"For the record I agree with him, or at least, I agree the contagious nature of this being way higher than anticipated has caused panic. Remember, Fitzgerald has only ever known peacetime since he's been in office. This is his first crisis."
"See? He gets it." Herman said. "You should think like a human for once instead of a government stooge."
"Yeah? Well, maybe since I’m such a government stooge, I might have to report you for stealing sensitive government data." She said, glancing towards the reams of paper spread out across the table.
"Hey, that's not fair, I’m trying to help you."
"Please, can everyone just calm down," Draven snapped. "We don’t have time to bicker. We need to decide what to do."
"You heard the president," Herman said, flicking his eyes from Draven to the door. "Martial law. Best thing to do is hole up here and see what happens."
"We can’t just sit here and hope things get better," Kate said. "Unlike you, we have responsibilities to try and fix this."
"Don’t get me wrong, lady, I’m no coward. But look at the TV screen." He pointed to the images on the screen which were showing looting and rioting in various countries around the world. "That shit won’t just be on the box anymore. It will be happening right now out there."
"The President said there would be food banks, he said-"
"Come on," Herman cut in, tossing the remote on the floor in front of him. "Do you really, genuinely believe that people are going to sit at home playing happy families and wait for someone to bring them food? Sorry, but we all know that ain’t gonna happen. People are going to go out there and stock up on whatever they can carry, and when the store shelves are empty, that’s when they'll turn on each other and start to kill over a box of crackers or a bottle of water. No matter how you try to butter it up and put faith in our so called commander in chief, society is on the verge of breaking down. End of the world, man, end of the fucking world."
"Will you shut up!" Kate snapped. "I’m sick to death of hearing all this conspiracy bullshit. What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Ain't nothing wrong with me lady. It's not my fault if you can’t see what's right in front of you."
"This isn’t the time." Draven cut in. "Like it or not, the three of us need to work together if only in the short term."
"So what do you suggest we do," Kate said, cheeks flushing in anger. "To say you're our expert, you seem to be taking quite the back seat."
"If by back seat you mean concentrating on solving the task at hand rather than bickering, then yes, I suppose I have. Now like it or not, Herman has a point. Despite the assurances of the President, I don’t think it will be too long before people start rioting and looting and whatever the hell else."
"Exactly, which is why we need to stay put." Herman said, giving Kate a smug grin.
"Actually, that's why we need to get out of here," Draven went on.
"What's wrong with here? Is my home not good enough?"
"Actually no, for this situation it isn’t," Draven replied.
"What’s wrong with it?"
"First off it's too exposed. Second, it’s a mobile home so anyone looking for transport if things get crazy might be tempted to take it. Also, there is only one entrance which means there is no escape route if someone decides to attack. It's also no good for defending. The walls to this place wouldn’t withstand much if someone came at it with an axe or crowbar. Even worse, if someone decided to open fire on this place, the bullets would go straight through. With nowhere to hide or protect ourselves, we would be sitting ducks."
"You could say that about most of the places around here," Herman mumbled.
"Almost."
They both looked at Kate who was reading a message on her phone.
"Get your stuff together. We're leaving." She said to Draven.
"Where are we going?"
"Pentagon. The vice president is on his way there. We have been ordered to go and meet him to bring him up to speed."
"I thought we were going directly to the president with this?" Draven said.
"All I know is what I’ve been told, and that’s to meet Vice President Carter at the Pentagon."
"Maybe old man Fitzgerald is feeling the strain of all those skeletons climbing out of the closet, eh?" Herman said, grinning at Kate. "Still, Carter ain't much better. That arrogant son of a bitch needs someone to bring him down a notch or two."
"You can tell him yourself," Kate said as she slotted her phone in her jacket. "You're coming too."
"Me?" Herman said, scrambling to his feet. "No, no I don’t think so. I’m busy right now and I have lots of work to do, research, analysis, all that kind of stuff. Good luck to you both, though."
"It's not an option. You have information that we might need."
"I see what you're saying. I’m still staying here." Herman said, folding his arms.
"No, you're coming."
"As far as I’m aware, you have no reason or right to force me to come along. I read up on this stuff. There's nothing you can do to change my mind." Herman said, shrugging his shoulders and unleashing his best grin.
"Fine," Kate said, then in a fluid motion pulled her pistol from inside her jacket and trained it on Herman.
"Hey hey, easy with the gun, man!" Herman squealed, throwing his arms up and banging his knuckles on the roof.
"What the hell is this?" Draven said.
"He's disobeying a direct order given to me from a military general who has requested his presence. Either he comes along, or I shoot him."
"Isn’t that a bit extreme?" Herman said, his voice an octave or three higher than normal. "Come on man help me out here."
"He's a civilian," Kate said, flicking a quick glance in Draven’s direction. "He can’t help you. You either come of your own free will, or I’ll be forced to arrest you and take you in by force."
"Alright, alright, no need to get so twitchy, I’ll come with. Just stop pointing that thing at me."
Kate hesitated, enjoying watching Herman squirm, then relaxed and slipped the weapon back into her jacket. "Get a bag and gather the notes, we leave in five."
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE
WASHINGTON DC
JOSHUA WALKED DOWN PENNSYLVANIA Avenue, and even despite his near immortality and absolute confidence in his plan, nerves were still gnawing at his stomach. Without his own mortality to fear for, he instead worried for his legacy. Society wouldn't easily understand at first why he was going to such extreme lengths. In time, they would, but first he would have to endure being labelled as a murderer, a terrorist of the highest order. He adjusted his bag on his shoulder, comforted by the weight of its contents. Guns. Grenades. Ammo. Plenty of ammo.
Dressed in a crème suit with a white shirt open at the neck, he didn't particularly stand out from the crowd. Despite the chaos taking place the world over, the arrogance of the American public meant that they always assumed it could never happen to them and that things would be alright as long as it was on the other side of the television screen and someone else had to deal with it. Never did they expect it to happen on their doorstep; never did they think it would come at them on a sunny Thursday afternoon.
As he walked, more of his brothers came. From side streets and cafes, from shops and cars, emerging out from their public hiding places, each man carrying a bag on his shoulder containing enough weaponry to do what needed to be done. Wordlessly they fell in behind him as they walked. He knew the rest of his men were doing the same, the ones on 15th and 17th Street as well as those currently making their way towards Constitution Avenue, all converging on the same place. Joshua knew that in order to be taken seriously, they had to make a statement of intent. One so bold, so brazen, it bordered on the theatrical. One which would let the world know they were a serious force to be reckoned with.
As more men fell in behind Joshua, their presence became more obvious. People looked at them, some curious, others smiling nervously and perhaps sensing something was about to happen. Still they didn't deviate, nor did they slow as the White house came into view, the crowds pressing against the iron railings which surrounded the grounds which provided little in the way of security if someone was determined to breach them. Just another example of the blinkered arrogance of those charged with running the country. To Joshua, those railings made a statement, a statement that said nobody dare cross this barrier because they know the consequences would be dire. It was self-serving arrogance, and because of it, punishment was about to be delivered in the most brutal way possible. Despite having no verbal communication, Joshua and his men all reached the perimeter fences on each side of the property at the same time. As they approached the railings, one of Joshua’s men jogged in front, ducked and linked his hands. Joshua threw his bag over the fence, then without breaking stride stepped into the hands of one of his brothers and was boosted over the fence. Gracefully, he grabbed the upper spikes of the railings and vaulted over as the rest of his kin followed suit as they were boosted over onto the grass beyond the fence. People outside pointed and murmured as man after man breached the grounds. Joshua, upon landing crouched and unzipped his bag pulling out the assault rifle. He shrugged the bag back onto his shoulder and led his brothers over the lawn towards the White House as they too drew their weapons.
Behind them, the people started to scream.
II
Immediately after making his address to the nation, President Fitzgerald had returned to the Oval Office and asked everyone to leave. Finally alone and away from the constant chatter of noise and stress of dealing with the ever-evolving situation, Ron Fitzgerald could finally be himself. He sat in his chair and loosened his tie, then resting his elbows on the desk, rubbed his temples.
I’m too old for this.
It wasn’t the first time such thoughts had entered his head. He would never admit it, but he was already starting to feel as if the job was getting to be too much for him even before this new situation had reared its head and forced him into action. It was only for the love of his wife he carried on, determined to make her proud, even in death. As the situation escalated, the more work was put on him and the more he could feel his stress levels increasing. He listened inwardly to his body, trying to release some of the tension. He thought back to when he was a child, a simpler time when life was free of decisions which affected the lives of every man and woman in the country. He smiled as the memories came back to him, of sitting outside on the back porch of the family home with his father. The images were clear and crisp, so vivid he could still smell the dry sweetness of freshly cut grass and hear the drone of honey bees. His father had been trying to teach him the guitar on a tired old nylon stringed acoustic which had seen better days. Despite trying his best, he was unable to grasp the coordination to unlock the ability to play with any sort of consistency. He had noticed as he made awkward hand shapes and tried to position his fingers on the frets that the guitar was sounding even more unusual than normal.
"Here, give it to me boy, it's slipped outta’ tune." His father had grunted.
The ten-year-old future president did as he was told, and handed his father the guitar, watching as the older man's fingers danced and glided down the fretboard with ease.
"E string's out," He muttered, then began to wind the string using the tuning pegs on the headstock with his left hand as he picked the troublesome string with his right.
Ron never liked that sound as the pitch of the string increased as it was tightened.
"It won’t hurt you, son," his father said, seeing his son’s discomfort. "These strings will take a lot of winding before they break."
Almost fifty years later, as he sat amid the growing chaos, Ron Fitzgerald found a rare smile at the memory of his father. He felt a lot like that guitar, wondering how much more tension he could withstand before he snapped. He was dragged from his thoughts as the door to his office was opened by a flustered Secret Service agent. Behind him, people were rushing through the red-carpeted corridors.
"What's going on?" Fitzgerald asked.
"Mr. President, we have to move you, right now."
"What’s going on?"
"Mr. President, please. I'm Special Agent Pycroft. We need to move. We're under attack."
Fitzgerald was about to demand more information when he heard it for himself, the dull rattle of machine gun fire.
"They're here in the White House?”
"Not yet sir, but they're getting closer. Let's get you out of here."
Pycroft led the president through the adjoining room to a discreet panel in the wall. He punched a code into the keypad, expecting the wall to slide aside and reveal the entrance which led to the bunker deep below the structure. The console gave an angry buzz, causing Pycroft to flick a nervous glance over his shoulder. He punched in his code again, this time slowly to make sure he didn't make an error. Once again, the panel buzzed at him.
"I'm locked out sir," Pycroft said, listening to the sound of gunfire as it drew closer.
"Let me try my personal code," Fitzgerald said, pushing past Pycroft.
He had only keyed in two digits of his five digit code, when a tremendous explosion rocked the room, showering the president and Pycroft with debris.
Reacting on the instinct honed by his training, Pycroft shoved the president to the ground and shielded him, taking the brunt of the glass shards and debris on the back.
Fire licked around the edges of the room, as somewhere close by, another explosion rattled the building. Pycroft stood, helping the president to his feet. Both of them were covered in pulverised dust, and a large fire licked at the edges of the room, which was shrouded in thick smoke. Pausing to wipe the blood from his eyes due to the laceration on his forehead, Pycroft retrieved his weapon from the ground.
"Try your code again sir," he said to the President, his voice remarkably calm and collected.
With a shaking hand, the president followed Pycroft’s instructions, only to be greeted by the familiar tone indicating they were denied access.
"I don't understand," Fitzgerald said.
"They must have locked out the system somehow. Follow me," he said, leading the President through an adjoining door into a room which was so far undamaged. Pycroft slipped on a wireless earpiece and spoke into it as he led the way, gun held in front of him, checking every blind spot.
"This is Agent Pycroft. I have the eagle. Plan A is no go. Proceed with plan B. Repeat, Proceed with plan B."
Fitzgerald jumped as gunfire peppered the wall in the room adjacent to them. He couldn't quite believe what was happening. Shouting. Screaming. The smell of smoke.
"Down, down!" Pycroft said, unceremoniously shoving the president into the gap between the wall and an ornate sideboard filled with expensive plates and silverware. Seconds later, the door at the end of the room opened and one of Joshua’s men entered. Pycroft crouched and opened fire, hitting the man in the chest twice before he could take more than a single step into the room.
The man grunted and was thrown against the wall by the impact, and yet didn't go down. Instead, he swung his weapon towards Pycroft and opened fire. Bullets zipped through the air, slamming into the walls and reigning chunks of concrete down on the floor. With his free arm, Pycroft reached up and pulled the dresser over, providing the agent and President with a makeshift barricade. More bullets were fired, wood, glass and concrete showering the agent and president as they pressed against the wall out of range. Showing no panic, the blond haired agent calmly reloaded his weapon.
"Don't you move," he screamed at the president, and then swung into view, peering over the edge of the dresser and getting off three shots. One went wide, shattering the eighteenth-century mirror which hung on the wall. The second and third bullets found their target, one in their attackers forearm, the other in his stomach. Pycroft was sure that would be enough, and yet the injuries only seemed to anger their attacker as he returned fire. Pycroft ducked out of sight, breathing heavily and keeping a close eye on the President.