Armageddon

by James Patterson

“Looks like it,” I said.

  Cradled against my chest, Dana leaned up and startled me with a kiss.

  “You’re still my hero,” she whispered softly. “Even if you do have a weird thing for Earth girls.”

  “Come on, Dana. Mel’s nice. She’s also real.”

  “Whatever. I’m just happy to be alive, even if it’s only in your imagination.”

  “That was awesome, Daniel,” said Joe, after I had carried Dana down to the roadway to join the rest of the gang.

  Yes, Dana could’ve jumped down on her own, but I got the feeling she liked being back in my arms.

  To tell the truth, I didn’t mind it, either.

  “So,” asked Willy, “how’d you take down all four bogies at the same time?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t.”

  Dana put a hand on her hip. Shot me her “give me a break” eyes.

  “Well, if you didn’t do it,” asked Emma, “who did?”

  “Hey, you guys—were those four the only troublemakers?”

  It was Mel. Her voice was booming out of a loudspeaker mounted on top of the FBI truck.

  “Or are there more locusts for me to eliminate from this equation?”

  Chapter 26

  “THERE’S A TOWN in Kentucky called Locust,” Mel informed us as the ATV, with all of us back inside, crawled through the deserted streets of what used to be Washington, D.C. Now it looked like something out of the Stone Age.

  “So,” she continued, “we know how to deal with the noisy little buggers when they swarm into town to devour our crops.”

  “So what’d you do?” asked Willy. “Blast them with some kind of invisible insect-repellent death ray?”

  Mel smiled her crooked grin—the one that had totally stopped my heart when she’d flashed it at me as I came out of that creek soaking wet.

  “Something like that,” she said. “I rigged up the van’s sound system to act as an ultrasonic device and blasted extremely high-frequency waves out of the external speakers, because locusts have complex tympanic organs….”

  “Huh?” said Joe.

  Emma helped him out. “Ears, basically. A stretched membrane backed by an air sac and sensory neurons. Sort of like a tiny tympani drum with nerves.”

  “Oh,” said Joe. “Eardrums.”

  “We humans can’t hear sounds pitched higher than twenty thousand hertz,” Mel continued, “but locusts can detect frequencies up to one hundred thousand hertz.”

  “They teach you this at horse school, Mel?” Dana said, somewhat snidely.

  “Nope. Middle school.”

  “Uh-oh,” Joe said, gesturing toward the monitor mounted above the truck’s blinking control panel. “Here comes something else humans are gonna wish they couldn’t hear.”

  He amped up the master volume knob, and we heard the final trumpet strains of “Hail to the Chief.”

  Every flat-screen TV was now filled with the official seal of the President of the United States.

  “Pull over,” Agent Judge said to the driver. “We probably need to watch this. Looks like President McManus has activated the Emergency Broadcast System.”

  The driver crunched over to what remained of the curb. According to a sign I saw lying in the wreckage, we were on Constitution Avenue, right in front of the ruins of the National Archives Building, which had once looked like the Parthenon in Athens.

  Now it looked more or less like the scrap pile behind Granite ’R’ Us.

  “Here we go,” said Willy as the presidential seal faded away.

  A very nervous President John McManus—who hailed from Tennessee and had snowy-white hair—sat behind a military-issue steel desk with his hands folded, trying to look calm and presidential. There were no American flags on the desk, no family photographs.

  “He must be in the bunker,” said Agent Judge. “The secure underground location where they’d take the president if we ever had a nuclear attack.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” cooed an off-camera voice, which I immediately recognized as belonging to Number 2, “the President of the United States.”

  “My fellow Americans,” said President McManus, “I come to you this evening with a heavy heart. For many years, we, your leaders in the United States government, have dreaded the day when alien beings from planets unknown would land on Earth and, with their superior weaponry, conquer us. Well, as you have undoubtedly heard, that day has arrived. Today, our nation’s capital was taken over by an invading army of technologically advanced alien invaders.”

  “What?” said Willy. “He’s already surrendered?”

  “Sure sounds like it,” said Joe.

  “To those of you currently residing outside of Washington, D.C., be advised: your own Armageddon is rapidly approaching.”

  “Tomorrow,” said the off-screen voice.

  “That voice. That’s him, right, Daniel?” said Mel. “Number 2?”

  “Yeah.”

  The camera pushed in tighter on the president’s very worried face. “My fellow Americans, I urge you all to lay down your weapons. Do not fight back. Our victorious visitors have promised me that no American citizens will be harmed as long as we all do as we are told.”

  “Man,” said Willy, “how much mistletoe is hanging off Number 2’s coattails? The president is kissing his butt, big-time.”

  “This is bad,” said Emma. “I mean, I’m all for peace, but not without justice….”

  Me? I figured it was the same-old, same-old:

  Politicians selling their souls to the highest bidder.

  Chapter 27

  “IN CONCLUSION,” SAID President McManus, “rest assured that the government of the United States is still quite functional, here in our secure underground facility.”

  The camera widened out to show a cluster of very important-looking men and women in business suits, plus a couple of guys in military uniforms.

  “The Speaker of the House, the vice president, the secretaries of state and defense, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Supreme Court agree that it is in our nation’s best interest for all of you to surrender peaceably and seek safety in the vast network of shelters our conquerors have established underground.”

  “Number 2 is a slaver,” blurted Emma.

  “Maybe that’s why there haven’t been any casualties,” added Agent Judge.

  “Right,” said Mel. “He doesn’t want to kill humans; he wants to sell them into slavery!”

  “He probably sails around the galaxy, enslaving entire planets,” said Dana. “When he has a fresh load of laborers, he holds an interstellar auction and ships the slaves off to the highest bidder!”

  Yes, sick as it may sound, there are still some planets—particularly mining colonies and farming worlds—where slavery not only exists but thrives as it did on this planet from the time of Hammurabi’s Code (around 1760 BC) until 1981, when the country of Mauritania became the last nation on Earth to finally outlaw the twisted system.

  And, for the record, intergalactic slaves fare no better than those formerly oppressed on Earth. They are forced to do hard labor against their will; their children become their master’s property the instant they’re born, and can be sold or traded at his whim; and if a slave tries to escape, he or she can be killed.

  Number 2 most likely had a fleet of interstellar slaving ships orbiting Earth, waiting for his cargo. Once he rounded up as many humans as he could trap in his subterranean holding pens, he’d sell them to the land barons and mining moguls up on Cordood Three, Drangovan, Bresbilzon, and a dozen other bleak planets where the workers toil from sunup to sundown (which, on Cordood Three, can last seventy-nine hours).

  “Remember,” said President McManus, “to paraphrase the poet Shakespeare, ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’ ”

  “Everybody always quotes that line,” said Mel, “but they leave out the fact that Shakespeare had a big fat coward named Falstaff say it!”

  “Not to mention the fact that he’s quoting it backwar
d,” added Emma. “It’s ‘the better part of valor is discretion.’ ”

  “It is far better to be prudent,” the president continued, “than merely courageous. Caution is preferable to rash bravery. Slavery is preferable to death.”

  Willy shook his head. “So much for the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

  “He doesn’t speak for all of us,” said Agent Judge.

  “We’re not surrendering, right, Dad?” said Mel.

  “Well,” said Agent Judge, “to quote another Brit, Sir Winston Churchill: ‘Never give in, never, never, never, never.’ ”

  “Too bad this Churchill guy isn’t president,” said Willy.

  “He’s dead,” said Dana.

  “So? Even dead, he’d be better than this white-haired yellow belly.”

  Now the camera swung off President McManus to frame the hideous image of Number 2 himself, standing in the wings.

  The massive beast wasn’t wearing his custom-tailored Savile Row business suit or smiling newscaster face anymore. He was back in terrifying demon mode, his red eyes burning brightly.

  “Good citizens,” Number 2 said calmly, “I urge you to hurry. We don’t have room down below for everybody. When my shelters are full, we will be forced to barricade the entryways and eradicate any stragglers. Oh. One more thing. President McManus?”

  The camera swung back to the politician who used to be the most powerful man on Earth.

  “Yes, thank you. Our new Lord and Master has advised me that there is one resident of the United States that he is particularly interested in meeting down below. In fact, if this young man will do the right thing, well, Number 2 has given me his word that he will be more inclined to show mercy to those of us currently under his protection.”

  Every eye in the van was staring at me.

  The president leaned forward.

  “Daniel?” he said. “If you’re out there, son, do the right thing. Turn yourself in. Surrender!”

  I guess Number 2 had cut a deal with America’s ruling elite: give me Daniel X, and you guys get off easy. Maybe he promised them indoor work on Cordood Three.

  Now the president’s image was replaced by my pimply yearbook mug shot, the same one Number 2 had shown to his minions down in that sweltering cavern.

  According to the text scrolling across the bottom of the screen, I was an “illegal alien” and my capture would earn the captor “Special Work Condition Consideration.”

  Great.

  Now Number 2 had turned the entire nation into bounty hunters!

  Chapter 28

  I WAS USED to being a bad guy to the bad guys, but not a bad guy to the good guys. This was a little too much to absorb.

  “Okay, everybody,” I said. “Answer me this: If Number 2 is an intergalactic slaver, why does he want me more than any other creature currently residing on planet Earth?”

  “Easy,” said Joe. “You’d be the most awesome slave ever! You could build the pharaoh his pyramids in a heartbeat, just by thinking about them.”

  “Maybe…”

  Once again, all the TV screens were filled with images of citizens fleeing their homes for the so-called safety of the subway tunnels.

  “Well, Dad,” said Mel, “guess you, me, and Agent Williams are the only humans not doing what our president just told us to do.”

  Agent Judge shook his head. “This isn’t the America I remember.”

  “These colors don’t run,” mumbled Agent Williams, sitting behind the steering wheel.

  I turned to my four friends. “Guys, take five.”

  “What?” said Dana. “You’re not sending us away again, are you?”

  “These colors don’t run, either,” said Willy, slapping his hand over his heart.

  “I know, Willy. But I need some time to focus. And to run a quick errand.”

  I blinked and my four best friends in the universe disappeared.

  “It’s a lot easier to concentrate,” I explained, “when I don’t have to simultaneously imagineer their existence.”

  “Of course,” said Mel.

  “Wait here, you guys,” I said as I yanked open a side door. “I’ll just be a second.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Agent Judge, his voice full of fatherly concern.

  “To run that errand and, hopefully, find the America we all remember.” I head-gestured toward the wreckage of what had once been the nation’s temple of freedom.

  “Out there?” said Mel.

  “Yeah. The rotunda of the National Archives Building. That’s where they kept the original, signed copies of the Declaration of Independence, the United States Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. I need to go grab all three because, if you ask me, this country’s leaders need to reread its charters of freedom!”

  Chapter 29

  I CRAWLED THROUGH the wreckage toward the spot where the pin on the Google map in my brain indicated I’d find the National Archives Building’s rotunda, thanks to the neuron-based, high-speed Wi-Fi connection in my Alpar Nokian cerebellum.

  As I moved forward, I remembered Xanthos’s advice: Beware of darkness. Right now, I was having some extremely dark thoughts about President McManus and his cowardly cronies—and not just because they’d just put a bounty on my head.

  I was ticked off because they’d forgotten what America was supposed to be all about. As a former, much braver president once said, “America is a shining city upon a hill whose beacon light guides freedom-loving people everywhere.” I needed to find that shining beacon’s three instruction manuals: the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and the Declaration of Independence.

  When I reached the spot where the Charters of Freedom exhibit stood when the National Archives Building wasn’t a scrap heap of neoclassical rubble, I opened my eyes and switched on my handy X-ray vision.

  I used it to visually pierce the fallen ceiling slabs, felled columns, and pulverized plaster that made it look like a tour group had arrived here on a bulldozer instead of a bus.

  Buried beneath a heap of twisted rebar and chunks of marble was the four-paneled, gold-framed display case holding the four pages of the original United States Constitution, handwritten back in 1787. After quickly levitating a landfill’s worth of building debris, I unburied the pen-and-ink version of the United States Constitution.

  I peered through the first shattered pane of glass and read the preamble on the yellowed sheets of crisp parchment, filled with loopy calligraphy: “We the people of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”

  Okay, so usually government documents—junk like tax forms and change-of-address cards from the post office—don’t choke me up. But this? This was the blueprint for running a country based on the premise that all human beings were created equal, that they had the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

  Now the Constitution, and all that it stood for, lay trampled on the ground.

  And if its brittle, antique parchment was exposed to the elements much longer (Number 2 had ripped off the building’s rotunda like the pop-top lid of a Pringles can), the document, like the ideals it stood for, would soon turn to dust and disappear.

  I planned on materializing a new, high-tech, hermetically sealed, bullet- and bombproof display case for the Constitution as well as the two other Charters of Freedom.

  But first, I wanted to touch it. I needed to feel the document the way the founding fathers had felt it when they wrote down its vital words.

  As soon as the tip of my finger touched the first sheet, I was blown away by a hurricane of emotions. So much so that I immediately (and involuntarily, I might add) dove down through the surface of time and went soaring back into history.

  Hey, I’ve time-traveled before. I’ve even visited King Arth
ur’s Court and hung out with Merlin (spoiler alert: he was an alien). But I’ve always been the one booking the flight and choosing the destination. I’d never before been swept up by a time-flux tsunami generated by raw, gut-wrenching emotion. I had no idea where or when I was headed—or why I was headed there—until I arrived.

  I instantly recognized a lot of the men in powdered wigs, waistcoats, ruffled collars, and knee-high breeches milling around the room. George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, James Madison, and Alexander Hamilton were the most famous guys in the hall, but thirty-three other gentlemen were also present. All of them were eagerly awaiting their turn to pick up a feathered pen and affix their signatures to a freshly inked document.

  Because I was in Philadelphia, in Independence Hall, standing with the thirty-nine founding fathers who had originally signed the United States Constitution.

  Chapter 30

  I WISHED I had brought along my kite.

  Benjamin Franklin, his eyes twinkling, strolled over to greet me.

  I have to admit: I’m a total Franklin fan-boy because, like me, he had interests all over the map. The guy—now best known for having his bald-headed picture on the hundred-dollar bill—was a famous author, printer, political theorist, postmaster, diplomat, statesman, scientist, and inventor (he came up with bifocals, the lightning rod, the odometer, and, of course, the Franklin stove). He also formed the first public lending library in America and the first fire department in Pennsylvania.

  Then again, Benjamin Franklin was also the man who nominated the turkey to be America’s national symbol (instead of the bald eagle), so not all of his ideas were absolutely brilliant. But, hey, the guy was always thinking.

  “Ah, welcome to 1787, Daniel,” he said, extending his hand. “I always imagined time travel to be possible. As I’ve always said, one today is worth two tomorrows.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” I gestured toward the great men signing the document that every President of the United States takes an oath to preserve, protect, and defend. “This country’s tomorrows aren’t looking very bright, sir.”