by Tim Curran
“Bravo, Mr. President,” Maddie said. “No sacrifice is too great! If you have to level this city in a nuclear barrage, then so be it!”
“YES! THAT WILL MAKE THEM SEE HOW VERY POWERFUL I AM! HOW I STAND IN THE FACE OF ADVERSITY! THEY WILL KNOW WHO IS KING! WHO IS LORD GOD ALMIGHTY! WHO IS COMMANDER IN CHIEF! I’LL SACRIFICE MILLIONS IF I HAVE TO! I’LL WRITE HISTORY IN THEIR BLOOD!”
“But we must be prudent above all else,” Tiggman said, shaking a few drops of urine from his penis. “If we kill everybody, who’ll be left to vote for you?”
“TOUGH TITTY, SAID THE KITTY! LIFE AIN’T FAIR IN THE BIG BAD CITY! IT’S FULL OF PAIN AND AIN’T THAT A PITY?” said the President, remembering his mother saying the exact same thing to him before she gave him the strap. “THEY MUST UNDERSTAND WHO THE MASTER AND COMMANDER IS! I AM THE GREATEST MAN EVER TO LEAD THIS PROUD NATION! I AM THE GREATEST AMERICAN TO EVER HAVE LIVED! THERE CAN BE NO DOUBT THAT I AM THE MOST POPULAR PRESIDENT IN HISTORY!”
“Yes, yes!” Maddie cried, tears streaming down her face like some star-struck hormonal teenager who had finally met the popstar she fantasized over. “No one has ever been greater than you! You are the man the country has waited for! You are the one to lead! We worship you! We worship you!”
She fell to her knees and hugged his legs. She was his to command. Oh, if only he would let her prove her adoration! She wanted so badly to take his divine scepter into her mouth and swallow what he produced for the good of the nation.
Tiggman began laughing. He couldn’t seem to stop. As he watched the President, the laughter filled him, bursting from every seam. He doubled over, tears rolling from his eyes. He was not certain what was so funny about his boss, but, man, it was hilarious.
Maddie was not about to put up with such disrespect. “Stop it. Do you hear me? Stop it.” But he only laughed louder. “You stop this right now!” She slapped him across the face and still he laughed. “You stop it, you fucking stupid little Jewboy! You goddamn kike! Do you hear me, you motherfucking yid heeb hymie cocksucker!”
By then, despite being slapped repeatedly, Tiggman was down on his knees, still laughing, out of his head with it.
The President did not seem to notice any of it. He strode back and forth with an exaggerated gait, his hand shoved inside his bedraggled suit like Napoleon. “OH, I WISH THAT FUCKING BOB PERSHING COULD SEE ME NOW!” he cried. “NOW I HAVE PURPOSE! NOW I HAVE DIRECTION! NOW I HAVE ABSO-FUCKING-LUTE MANIFEST DESTINY! I KNOW IT! YOU KNOW IT! THE ENTIRE GODDAMN COUNTRY KNOWS IT! THAT’S WHY I AM EVERYONE’S FAVORITE PRESIDENT!”
And out beyond the walls of Emerald City, there was sporadic gunfire and a distant explosion, a soundtrack to the final days of the office.
WASHINGTON DC:
THE PENTAGON
1:41 A.M.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Time was running out and there was no one at the wheel of the country, no leader or guiding hand. Maybe all the mindless and easily-manipulated taxpayers did not know it yet, but those in positions of power—like Arlene Rabin, Secretary of State—knew the awful truth that the flowers of this particular dog-and-pony show democracy had folded up and were withering at the roots.
She rose from her desk, something in the back of her mind telling her that she would soon be in line for the presidency, that it would fall into her lap and the idea terrified her. To be president was to be in the crosshairs and she did not want to be in the crosshairs.
A lurching, eye-watering stab of pain in her belly, the SecState rose from her desk, doubling over and spraying a scarlet, muddy vomit from her mouth. It went right down the front of her $800 plaid jacket. She stumbled into the water cooler, wiping her mouth and leaving a bloody handprint on the wall just beneath a framed photo of the Prez himself.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Arlene considered herself a realist and even in this final hour, that did not change. She was infested and she knew it. There were worms in her. It was a horrible thing to have to admit and it had caused her more than a little anxiety and outright horror, but now she accepted it. It also helped that the parasites in her that were fighting for dominance amongst themselves were constantly juicing her with sporadic, conflicting bursts of neurotransmitters—specifically serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine—that pushed her psychologically up peaks only to kick her back down into valleys. Depression, anxiety, paranoia, hope, anger…her brain was a stew of chemicals and no mood seemed to last for more than a few minutes.
This won’t stop, a voice informed her, until you get those damn things out of you.
Down on her knees now on the plush carpeting, she jabbed a finger down her throat and gagged. She knew how to induce vomiting. She had suffered from bulimia as a teenager and she had become a pro at it. Her belly rolled and heaved, bile shooting from her mouth in a hot stream.
Endorphins flooded her brain, making her emotionally content. Her guests wanted her to know that this was unnecessary. Only they could make her happy, only they could alleviate the crippling depression she’d known most of her adult life.
But you are foreigners and infidels and invaders, she thought. You do not belong inside me.
She crawled over the carpeting as her guts continued to spasm painfully. The worms offered her serotonin to inhibit the pain, making her feel better, then cutting her off so that she understood that deliverance could come only through their offices.
She clutched her stomach as they toyed with her, her eyes huge and glistening, threaded with brilliant red capillaries. Fuck…you. She shoved her finger down her throat again, searching for the elusive sweet spot as a sour bile squirted into her mouth. That is their flavor, the taste of their secretions. Knowing that she was on to them, they filled her mouth with sweetness… honey and sugar, chocolate and nougat and cherry fizz. They tried everything. Once they had tapped into her brain, nothing was beyond them. She was a machine to be driven and it was just a matter of learning how to handle her, how to turn corners and apply the accelerator, easing off on the brakes and clutch. She was a much tougher animal than most, but they would turn her into a thoroughbred.
She worked the finger in her throat and more bile came up. There was no time to disguise its unpleasant taste. The worms compensated, by tightening her esophagus and constricting her lungs. She gasped for air, falling face-first into the carpeting. It was plush and soft. Black dots popped in her head. She writhed, she fought, but the lack of oxygen took the fight out of her quickly enough as she felt sinuous forms sliding through her innards.
She could breathe again.
Of course, she could breathe again.
They weren’t about to kill their beast of burden any more than a jockey knowingly rides his horse to death. Her wind back, Arlene threw herself into the fight with amazing vigor. She worked the sweet spot at the back of her throat while simultaneously punching herself in the stomach. It made her fold up, but she kept at it. It hurt her, yes, but it also hurt the worms. Bile and stomach acid spilled from her mouth as they tried to get their animal under control.
But she was not easily trained.
She lay there, gagging, contorting, her body contracting and releasing, contracting and releasing, as her eyes filled with blood and her bladder voided itself. Her mouth filled with a viscid, jellied slime that spurted from her nostrils with each rapid exhalation. She was winning and she knew it. The worms tried frantically to master her, but it was useless by that point—Arlene was doing the impossible and purging them. They fought frantically against her, but battle had been waged and now they were losing.
With one last immense contraction, she vomited out a slush of bloody tissue and two sixteen-inch worms came out with it, squirming in her waste products. White as a slug’s belly, they twisted and mewled with a muted squeaking sound. She smashed them into a fleshy paste with her fists. Then she gagged again, a swollen mass coming up and ejecting with a greasy expectoration—a pulsating egg case that looked like it was breathing. She crush
ed it with a five-pound glass paperweight and it released a webby sludge of eggs, larval worms trying to escape into the carpeting.
Finally, filthy and blood-smeared, eyes bleeding and insane, she stepped over to the window and dove three stories to the pavement below.
She had won. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
FORT MEADE, MARYLAND:
NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY
2:10 A.M.
They were within hours of activation now and Gordon Parks could barely contain himself. He knew he should be getting some sleep because tomorrow was a big day—ha! It was the biggest day in history!—but there was no way in hell he was going to be able to shut his mind down. Just wouldn’t happen.
Imagine.
Just imagine, he thought.
Within the next twenty-four hours history would not only be made but re-written. That was the amazing thing. After activation, they could craft any fiction they so desired and wrap it up in a big, pretty bow and offer it up to John and Jane Q. Public and they would swallow it wholesale, without the slightest complaint or suspicion. Complaints of subterfuge and wrong-doing, corruption and graft, would all be things of the past.
Finally, ultimately, the powers that be (and Gordon was most certainly one of them) could begin leading this great nation to its ultimate destiny.
God bless America.
God bless us, one all.
SUITLAND, MARYLAND:
NATIONAL MARITIME INTELLIGENCE CENTER,
3:30 A.M.
Bob, I’m so sorry, Admiral Paulus thought with dismay and self-loathing, but when the chips were down and it was time to seize the reins… I just didn’t have the guts. I didn’t have the initiative to see it through. I apologize for letting you down, for letting the country down, and, worse, for letting myself down… but in the end, I’m an old man and I’m so sick of it all and I’m so goddamned tired.
Pershing had been calling for hours, but Paulus refused to answer any calls. He had hidden himself away and he wanted no one finding him, not until it was over with. He wanted them to remember him not as a conspirator but an honorable man, an officer and a gentleman.
His cell rang again. He shut it off and slid it into a drawer of his desk. It would hardly stop Bob Pershing. He had worked too hard and too long on this. He would not give in now. He’ll send people to find you. If you don’t tell them what they want to hear and give them viable excuses for being incommunicado, they will kill you. It will look like a suicide. He knew it was true. But not just a suicide. No, that wasn’t Bob Pershing’s way. Things would be doctored for dramatic effect. Some kiddie porn would be found on Paulus’ phone or hard drive. Maybe drugs would be involved, human trafficking. Whatever it was, it would paint Paulus as a monster.
Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.
He was only glad his wife was not around to see his disgrace. He swallowed a few fingers of whiskey, then began to type out a complete confession about the coup. He named names, dates, places. Everything he had been making notes of these past months went in there as well as all the dirt on Bob Pershing’s dirty machine. When he was done, he duped the file to a flash drive and sent it to three different clouds. A copy also went to his lawyer and a certain congressman from Iowa who absolutely despised the CIA in general and Bob Pershing in particular.
There.
No more wet feet.
No going back.
No fucking retreat.
Feeling better than he had in some time, the Admiral finished his whiskey, thought of the old days, his wife, his parents, every one that had passed. Yes, it had been a good life, a meaningful life. But now it was over. He took out his service pistol and, quite calmly, inserted the barrel into his mouth and blew his brains out.
WASHINGTON, D.C:
OVAL OFFICE PATIO, 3:53 A.M.
The Eisenhower Executive Office Building was burning. Adam Tiggman stood there watching the flames shoot up into the night sky along with a storm of sparks which danced like fireflies high overhead. Black smoke blew across the White House grounds in great, churning clouds that made him cough and blackened his face.
It’s all coming apart now and there’s nothing we can do about it. Nothing at all.
The thought appeared in his mind and he wasn’t sure if he had thought it at all. Then again, he wasn’t sure about a lot of things anymore. He only knew he was paranoid and fearful and confused. He couldn’t think or make sense of anything. He needed to run. To escape from Emerald City before the great Oz destroyed it with his hateful wrath.
He saw dark figures running around in the night, firing randomly at one another out on the South Lawn. On West Exec Avenue, he could see combatants illuminated by the fire, hiding in the rubble and shooting at each other.
It was time to get out.
WASHINGTON, D.C:
THE ROSE GARDEN, 4:03 A.M.
Hunched over with a carving knife in her hand, Maddie Hughes lifted her head up and released a screeching feral cry into the night. The fighting going on around her was invigorating and exciting. The staccato reports of automatic weapons, the smell of burning rubble and cordite, the screams of the dying… yes, yes, yes, that’s what life was about. That’s what it was really about. Forget those pretentious fictions about love and compassion, humanity and morality, life was about violence, about getting what you deserved, about striking before your enemy did, and lastly, seeking vengeance on those who betrayed you.
Betrayal in her mind took the form of Adam Tiggman. The President had trusted him and now he was running when that great man needed him most.
It will not be allowed. The President anointed me as his war chief and I will not let him down.
She ducked down as groups of figures passed within earshot. She did not know who they were, but she saw in the firelight that they wore the black fatigues of counterterrorist commandos.
Move! Go now!
She scampered away, drawing closer to the flaming hulk of the Eisenhower building. Someone was standing there, watching it burn, mesmerized by it. She moved in closer until her target was in view. There was no doubt by that point that it was Tiggman. He had made a fatal mistake in his betrayal—he had not run as fast and far away as he could have.
He let out a grunt when Maddie tackled him, driving him to the ground. He barely fought. That took a lot of the fun of it away. Not that it got him any sympathy. Maddie tussled with him for fifteen or twenty seconds, then slit his throat.
The President would be pleased. Another enemy of the state had been removed.
BOLLING AFB, WASHINGTON DC:
DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
5:02 A.M.
"It almost certainly came from Elizabeth Toma,” DNI Charles VanderMissen said. “I can’t imagine anyone else with this sort of information.”
“I wonder what her agenda is,” DDI Walter Sleshing mused. “I have a well-developed sense of paranoia when it comes to that woman. Any altruism from her is greatly suspect.”
“And with good reason.”
What she sent VanderMissen was, essentially, confirmation of what they had long suspected—that Bob Pershing of the CIA was indeed involved in a coup to overthrow the country. His co-conspirators were indeed Admiral Paulus and General Mason of the JCS. They figured that much. But what they hadn’t known was that Pershing’s plot was only the first step in something much larger, much more horrifying known as MINDWORM. Gordon Parks of the NSA seemed to be one of the architects of this. And if it wasn’t stopped, the idea of a free society would no longer exist.
They’d been at it all night, trying to figure out how to handle this, who they could trust and who they could not. The information had to be gotten to the President, but he had sealed himself in the White House and refused to see anyone but his closest aides.
“There’s something going on there,” Sleshing said for not the first time. “He’s no longer in control.”
“But how to prove it.”
“There’s only one way—we have to get to him.”
That was the problem. The White House Communications Agency was in complete disarray. And whether that was because of the heavy fighting around the White House and the Capitol Building or from the BioGenesis outbreak, it was anyone’s guess.
“We should be hearing back from Charlie Goade any moment now,” VanderMissen said.
He had never imagined the nation being in a situation like this. Everyone across the land wanted to know what was going on, but there was nothing coming out. Absolutely nothing. These were dire times and the nation waited to be reassured by their leaders, but, again, there was nothing. It had all been planned quite expertly by Bob Pershing and the conspirators. The Vice President was dead. The Speaker of the House and Senate President were missing. Secretary of State Rabin had committed suicide. Same for the Secretary of Defense. Key members of the President’s cabinet had either been killed or had dropped out of sight. What it came down to was that the chain of command had been carefully eliminated. If—God help them—the President was dead, command was passed down the ladder to the Secretary of the Treasury.
And that was big trouble.
And it’s also exactly how fucking Pershing planned it, VanderMissen knew.
The Treasury Secretary was Harold Manning, a former investment banker and an old friend of Bob Pershing. If the mantle fell to Manning, there was no doubt who would really be running the country.
Again, just as planned.
Which made getting to the President priority number one. They had to get this latest information to him one way or another. But getting there would mean going through some heavy fighting and landing right in the middle of a war zone. Neither VanderMissen or Sleshing wanted to use their resources at the SOCOM. There was every possibility that through Admiral Paulus they could no longer be trusted. The best bet was Charlie Goade at the FBI. He could get a chopper in there with a security detail of HRT counterterror operatives. It was going to be dicey as hell, but it was this or nothing.
