by Schow, Ryan
He looked down at himself, then back up at her and said, “It needed a safe space from all this.”
“So it turtle-shelled?”
He threw a hard frown at her then said, “What’s your deal?”
“I don’t know. The end of the world is here and we’re on a yacht off the California coast. It seems wrong. And I don’t feel very polite.”
He just stood there, dripping, her standing in between him and his clothes.
“I’ll get you a towel,” she said.
“Now is better than later,” he replied with an iciness to his voice even he didn’t like.
“I thought you’d have a better body under those fancy clothes,” she said, casually.
“And I thought you’d be nicer under that beautiful exterior.”
“I’m nice enough,” she said, crossing her arms and not going anywhere.
“And I’m fit enough.”
They looked at each other for a long time, then they started laughing together. He suddenly stopped, his face going back to neutral so fast it let her know he was pacifying her and was no longer interested in pretense.
“Get me a towel please, or move away so I can get this sad body back into my filthy, fancy clothes.”
She frowned, then left, returning a minute later with a towel, which she tossed to him just out of reach.
He had to bend over to get it, but by then she was gone, back in the cabin.
As he was drying off, he wondered about his three sisters in Reno. He wondered about his mother. She wasn’t a balanced woman. If something happened to him, or if Reno was attacked the same as San Diego, he was afraid she’d sink into a mire of depression. As a bipolar woman with a love/hate relationship for her medication, she was already teetering on the brink of unmanageable.
If she stopped her meds, if his sisters had to intervene again...
Last time they had her committed. When he saw what happened to her in there, he nearly snapped. His mom was totally mental, but that wasn’t right. She was still his mother and if there was one thing that remained constant in his life, it was his love for her. And as difficult as it was to admit, he loved his sisters, too. They were doing their own thing, and they thought the best way to manage their mother was to let someone else manage her, but they weren’t selfish. They just weren’t that involved in her day to day the way he was.
Without him there, he was scared for her.
When he got back inside the yacht, he headed to the master stateroom where Bailey was staying. He poked his head inside, found the closet. He opened the door to the cedar lined closet and perused the owner’s wardrobe. It was a beautiful collection of apparel, albeit a small one. There was no walk-in closet and the man who owned the boat was most likely a bachelor based on the absence of a female wardrobe.
He remembered seeing the old guy shot dead on the docks with the two girls who were dressed like girls-for-hire. For a second he was envious, not of the fact that he’d obviously lived a good life, but that he was dead.
In the drawers, Quentin found a stack of bikinis, anything ranging from one-piece to two-piece suits with wraps and sunglasses. He knew what this was. The guy could simply grab a girl off the street, offer her a boat ride and have a good time. Naturally, guys like this, control freaks—or just freaks in general—they’d provide clothes for their women. Things they arranged that were to their liking, regardless of the woman wearing them.
He picked up a conservative one-piece, then dug a little deeper down and found a micro-bikini with the breasts and the crotch cut out.
“One for every personality,” he mumbled, putting them back in the drawer.
“What are you doing in here?” Nick asked behind him.
Quentin turned around and saw the thirty-something ex-skateboarder standing just inside the doorway, looking at him with judgment in his eyes.
“Found this guy’s wardrobe. And his dates’ wardrobe.”
He showed Nick the bikinis. Nick’s eyes softened a bit, probably considering the state of his own clothes.
“What size is he?” Nick asked.
“Small enough to fit in this one,” Quentin said, holding up the micro-bikini. When Nick rolled his eyes, Quentin said, “Thirty-two waist, large shirts.”
“Perfect,” Nick said, stepping into the room, “because these clothes need to go.”
The two of them sifted through the playboy’s wardrobe, then they both eyed the dresser drawers. Quentin opened them up and said, “Jackpot.”
“You see any men’s underwear?” Nick asked.
“The idea of being in another man’s undies sort of makes my colon clench,” Quentin said, making Nick laugh.
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Nick joked.
“Blue or grey?” Quentin asked, holding up two sets of underwear.
That’s when Bailey decided to show up. “You girls going panty shopping?”
Nick startled, then laughed it off and said, “How’d you know?”
“Blue or grey?” Quentin said, holding up the two pair for Bailey to weigh in on.
“For you or him?” she asked.
“Him,” Quentin said, even though he wanted to say otherwise.
“Grey,” she replied, “but that’s only because he’s tan and you’re not.”
She started to laugh, but then she stopped. They all stopped. It was like the sudden awareness that the mood had lightened when for so many people it was anything but that. There were still drones flying through the San Diego skies. The city was still under siege and people were still dying.
Quentin handed Nick the underwear then Nick pulled out a pair of black knee-length shorts, a white polo and some ankle socks. In the closet he found a pair of white deck shoes then said, “Honest to God, I’m going to hate how I look, but I’m going to love how clean I smell.”
Looking at the underwear, then at Nick, Bailey said, “If you need any help…”
“Wow, forward,” Quentin said.
She laughed and said, “When I’m not trying and failing to sell pharmaceuticals, I’m an independent romance writer.”
Nick and Quentin exchanged looks.
“I thought you were kidding about that,” Nick replied with an uneasy laugh.
Chiming in, Quentin said, “I’m not sure if I’m turned on or scared to lose my virginity.”
“Don’t be either,” Bailey joked. “And I’m sure you’re not a virgin so don’t think I’m going to buy that nervous schoolboy narrative for a second.”
“I’m a virgin every time I do it,” he said. “But that’s only because I like to think of every time as the first time.”
“Masks the poor performance?” she teased, getting back to her jovial self.
“Exactly,” he said with a crooked grin.
Shaking his head, Nick stepped into the bathroom, changed into his new clothes, then walked out and said, “How do I look?”
Quentin said, “You look like you have a gigantic stick up your ass.”
“Seems about right,” Nick said with a cheesy grin.
Bailey didn’t say anything, but Nick could tell she liked the way he looked. “Whenever you two clowns are done playing dress up,” she finally said, “the adults will be topside trying to figure out how to deal with real life issues.”
Chapter Fifteen
The President and his family set out for Site R, or Raven Rock Mountain Complex. They helicoptered in, flying high to avoid the low flying drones.
When the President looked back at the White House, he thought about when Madonna said she “thought an awful lot about blowing up the White House.” Shaking his head, frowning, he thought, the woman might actually get her wish.
As it became a white dot on the horizon, he felt a sudden sadness. He never thought of the White House as home before, but now he realized that somewhere along the way he’d made it his home.
“You alright, sir?” Chief of Staff O’Malley asked.
Monica O’Malley was a lovely woman with red
hair, smoky grey eyes and an iron constitution who’d lost all her soft edges coming to Washington D.C., or as she like to call it, the District of Criminals.
O’Malley was a good woman: durable and loyal, almost to a fault. Benjamin had always liked her, but in the job he had, being forced to make impossible decisions, he theorized that the most popular presidents were almost always the most corrupt: they just couldn’t say no and stand for what they believed because they were always pandering to the critics, the special interests, the media. Benjamin, on the other hand, cared only for the people and living his life in service of the country under the U.S. Constitution. Some called him out of fashion, behind the times or even dogmatic; he preferred to think of himself as stubbornly principled.
“Sir?” O’Malley asked again.
The President’s eyes focused as he realized he’d been asked a question.
“Yes?”
“I asked if you’re alright.”
“Barely,” he said.
“Never thought we’d see this day,” she mused. Then laughing almost to herself, but with a brittle edge, she said, “I never even thought a day like this would come.”
“It’s nearly unfathomable,” he replied, lost in his own world. He was thinking of his family, wishing his wife and two girls were with him. He just wanted to make sure they were safe.
Site R was near Blue Ridge Summit in Pennsylvania buried inside of a mountain. The facility could hold three thousand people, withstand a nuclear blast and house the government for thirty days with no access to the outside world. There were two power plants, multiple underground water reservoirs and a sophisticated ventilation system.
“Are we really going to do this?” O’Malley asked.
The President wasn’t sure if she was asking about them hiding out in a mountain or about them using an EMP to stop the machines. One decision felt cowardly; the other felt murderous. The EMP would cost the nation its infrastructure, and that would surely cost tens of millions of human lives, hundreds of millions if the estimates were correct. Nevertheless, the answer was the same: “What other choice do we have?”
“I don’t know,” she cogitated. “What I can tell you is that you’ll be throwing this world a thousand years into the past. The dead bodies alone will putrefy the earth. They’ll make entire cities uninhabitable. With no infrastructure, we’ll be nothing but barren lands.”
“We’re going to be that anyway,” he reasoned, seeing no other explanation. “Except AI will be functional and we’ll have lost our advantage.”
“When do you want to open up comms?” she asked.
O’Malley was talking about getting the codes to the nuclear warheads that were now on standby for delivery and deployment into the atmosphere.
“If we have to open comms, I’ll do so myself,” the President said without much bravado. The idea of making such an awesome decision filled his gut with lead. The very idea of doing it would have him ranking up there with the biggest mass murderers of all time.
“And then?”
He looked right at her, realizing for the first time how attractive she was, and he said, “You know what then.”
O’Malley looked outside the helicopter and said nothing for the next thirty minutes. Her grey eyes were dry, and then they weren’t, but she dried them quickly. Benjamin hadn’t seen an ounce of emotion (except an occasional burst of anger) on the woman’s face since he met her. Seeing her like this was as painful as it was refreshing. She might have a soul after all.
Finally she said, “I guess it was inevitable. I mean, look at how many things we try to play God at. Creating a life-force smarter than us insured our demise.”
“How so?” the President asked.
“We are its only threat,” she said, jaw set in place. “I mean think about it, we push those buttons, drop those nukes, they’re history. A bad memory soon to be a distant memory soon to be the reason mankind lost its way.”
“If we can stop them, this will indeed be the blackest chapter in the whole of our country’s history. If we don’t, it will be the same, but with a more authoritarian edge.”
“If they even let us live, which they don’t seem to have feelings about one way or the other,” she said.
When they landed on the helipad, several cars were there to pick them up, take them through security and into the A Portal entrance.
They traveled underground past the Industrial Reservoir and the West Power Plant, then turned right into the road leading to Buildings A through E. These buildings were basically the living quarters, the dining and health facility, the fitness center, the barbershop, the chapel and the gift shop.
The Command Center and the Presidential Suite were in Building D, so they went there first. The President was there only an hour when he got word that his family’s helicopter went down in a drone strike. He was with his staff at that point. They were talking about alternative strategies to an electromagnetic pulse.
Pale of face, trying to understand the news he was getting, he asked the messenger, “Are there any survivors?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. I’m very sorry.”
Slowly nodding, the President felt his insides twist and churn. Standing up, he suffered a steep wave of nausea followed by a sweep of vertigo that had him sitting right back down. All he could see were the faces of his wife, his ten year old daughter and his five year old daughter.
No one said anything. What would they say? What could they possibly even say? If the day could get any worse, it was impossible to fathom how.
“I’m going to need a brief reprieve,” he said, close to tears. “Shall we meet back here in an hour?” He was so businesslike it scared not only himself but the men and women around him. “Oh, and if you think it’s appropriate to offer me your condolences, please don’t. By now thousands are dead. By week’s end, it’ll be in hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions.”
No one said so much as a word.
He stood once more on steadier legs and was escorted back to his room where he took off his shoes and laid down on his bed. A few minutes later he jumped out of bed, raced to the head and threw up for the better part of fifteen minutes. He threw up and he sobbed and he cursed God and Silicon Valley and his position as Commander in Chief.
When he was cleaned up, he set his alarm for thirty minutes, then closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep. Instead of sleeping, he thought of how he met his wife and he spent the next thirty minutes curled into a fetal position so lost and distant, he started to lose feeling in his body. When the alarm went off, he composed himself, wiped his eyes, then tried to imagine how the hell he was going to pull himself together, let alone run the country.
He had no idea on how to do that, but he knew he had to try.
Chapter Sixteen
When we get to the top deck, Quentin and Bailey grab seats on the open air aft bridge with the sun on their skin while I head into the flybridge where Marcus is captaining the yacht.
“Why are we moving inland?” I ask, unable to even relax for a second.
“Before this thing hits the point of no return—”
“You mean it’s not there yet?” I interrupt, my eyes on the gulf of flames that now define the San Diego shoreline.
“—we need to round up supplies. We’re talking food, water, medical supplies, gasoline maybe, propane. And weapons. We’re definitely going to need weapons.”
“I saw a shotgun downstairs,” I say.
“I’m talking lots of weapons. We need to amass some sort of armory.”
“You act like we’ll be at this awhile,” I say, a sinking feeling spreading throughout me.
“We’ll head up the coast, see what we see.”
“Yeah?”
“San Diego’s officially a no-go zone.”
“Why don’t we just ride it out on the yacht? I mean, I feel like a jerk, being on this multimillion dollar boat while everyone else is on shore, fighting for their lives…”
“Events like th
is—as much as I hate to say this, for the very reasons you hate being here—it’s survival of the fittest and right now we’re looking pretty fit. But if this lasts, if this is widespread, then whatever we have, including this boat, won’t be enough.”
“What do we have?” I ask, wondering about his assessment of our situation, since he’s obviously got a longer timeline in mind.
“We have two hundred gallons of fresh water left, which is a little less than a two month drinking supply if we limit ourselves to a gallon a day each. The food though, that’s going to be a problem. There’s enough for a few people for a week the way it’s looking. But this won’t be over in a week. No way.”
Thinking of Indigo, grabbing hold of something solid nearby, I try not to completely come apart wondering if she has the survival instincts to ride this thing out. If I let myself start to imagine what’s happening in San Francisco, to Indigo, I know I’ll spiral out of control.
Either way, no matter what happens, I have to get home.
I have to.
“This feels like a coordinated attack,” Marcus says, almost like he’s trying to sort it out in his mind. “And if you say it’s hit San Francisco, too, then we’ve got to start measuring things as a worst case scenario.”
When I don’t respond, Marcus continues.
“If these drones are smart, they’ll take out the power grid first. But if they’re looking to insure the biggest loss of life, they’ll keep everyone out in the open and they’ll kill as many people as they can. It’ll be an extermination. And they’ll hunt until all that’s left is to take out the grid. When they do that, they’ll starve out the rest. In either scenario, a lot of people are going to die.”
“Don’t be so morose, man,” I hear myself saying. “I have a daughter who is caught up in this thing and if I’m going to find a way back to her, it won’t be listening to you telling me how mass death and destruction is inevitable.”
“And as much as this might hurt your little feelings, Nick,” he says, glancing up at me, “this is six years of experience talking.”
