Extermination Day

by William Turnage

  “Here’s Bigsby!” Farrow hollered. “I think he’s unconscious.”

  Melinda bent over and tried to pick up the Washington Post reporter, but she straightened up quickly.

  “I need help! He’s too damned heavy!”

  “You go, Colonel,” Paulson said. “Agent Jones can carry my old bucket of bones out of here.”

  Demetrius and Melinda grabbed Bigsby as best they could by both arms and struggled to pull him from the wreckage. Lieutenant McMiller rushed over to help as well. The group managed to jump a few feet down to the ground through a large, gaping hole in the side of the cabin and land on the runway tarmac. Paulson watched them pull Bigsby to the edge of the wrecked plane.

  “This guy’s got to weigh over four hundred,” Demetrius said. “I don’t know how we’re going to get him away in time; the plane is about to go!”

  The entire plane was covered in flames, and dark smoke billowed into the night sky.

  “Look!” Melinda ran off and almost immediately came rushing back, pushing a luggage cart that had fallen out of the storage compartment. “Here, put him on this,” she said.

  Somehow they were able to flip Bigsby over onto the cart and start rolling him away from the plane. Paulson limped away as fast as he could with his arm around Jones’s shoulder, using the agent for support.

  “Wait!” Paulson suddenly remembered that Dr. Peebles had been in their cabin as well. “The doctor is still in there!”

  “I’ll get her,” Demetrius said through his intercom as he ran back to the burning plane, disappearing into the smoke.

  Paulson and the others kept moving, as far as they could away from the plane. Other passengers were streaming in all directions. Some were carrying and helping others who’d been injured. Everyone was wearing thick winter clothing and gas masks. A steady snowfall whirled around them and with the plane burning in the background, lighting the night sky, the scene looked like something out of an eerie apocalyptic thriller.

  A small explosion ripped through the back of the plane, then another tore open the front as the fireball continued to grow. The American flag on the tail darkened and melted away. Finally a violent booming explosion rocked the earth.

  The force of the blast hit Paulson in the back like a tank and knocked both him and Agent Jones to the ground. Millions of pieces of flaming debris fell around them. A sharp piece fell inches from Paulson’s head. Painted on it was one of the stars from the U.S. flag.

  Air Force One lay in shambles behind them, flames eating away at the once great plane.

  The heat from the fire was intense on his bio-suit as Paulson sat in the snow. A chill winter wind cut sharply through the air and ran up his spine. As he watched the plane burn, three shadowy figures rose up from the tarmac and struggled to move away from the wreckage. They were all wearing bright orange bio-suits.

  Agent Jones left Paulson’s side and ran toward them. One of the three was limping. Jones managed to get the injured person over to where Paulson was sitting and the others followed.

  “Glad to see you're alive, Mr. President,” Dr. Peebles said. “I would never have made it out without the help of Colonel Demetrius and Lieutenant McMiller here. I owe them my life.” She tapped her side. “I hurt my hip, but I can start treating the injured as best I can right now.”

  “I’m happy to see you as well. It looks like we have a lot of injured, but we need to make it to the Greenbrier base first. Treating people here just ensures that they’ll be exposed to the virus and die later on.”

  “He’s right,” Demetrius said. “We need to move out as fast as we can. I’ll check all around the wreckage of the plane and tell the survivors to head to the parking lot. We need to find a shuttle or enough cars to get us to the base.”

  Demetrius ran out to the haggard shapes standing huddled in small groups watching the burning plane. Paulson struggled to his feet with the help of Agent Jones.

  “We need to get moving,” Paulson said. “Come on.”

  The group made their way across the tarmac. Lieutenant Darren McMiller was in the lead, pushing the luggage cart still holding an unconscious Bigsby with Dr. Peebles hanging onto it for support, followed by Agent Jones assisting Paulson, and Melinda helping Secretary Farrow.

  The bulky spacesuit-like bio-suit was tight, scratchy, and constraining. Paulson wasn’t one to normally feel claustrophobic, but the helmet made him feel he needed to be out in a field breathing fresh air. As he walked, the suit made a plastic rubbing sound, and the edges of the visor were starting to fog up, making it hard to see.

  “That was an explosion back there, just after the plane touched down, wasn’t it Cameron?” Paulson asked Secretary Farrow after switching over to a private com-line.

  “I believe so, sir,” Farrow said solemnly.

  “Then someone sabotaged the plane. How the hell would they be able to do that? Air Force One is one of the most secure aircraft in the world.”

  “I don’t know how it happened, sir. It looks like we’ve been infiltrated on multiple levels in a highly coordinated strike.”

  “The last few hours have certainly been unprecedented.” Paulson gritted his teeth in anger. “We have to move forward from here with the assumption that we have a traitor in our midst, one willing to die for their cause.”

  “That blast was certainly meant to destroy the plane and kill everyone on board. If the saboteur survived the crash, he’ll be looking for the next opportunity to finish the job.”

  “We need to be on guard at all times, Cameron.”

  Melinda watched Paulson, a concerned look on her face as she helped carry Farrow. She obviously overheard their conversation. Although he couldn’t be truly sure, Paulson felt he could trust her.

  “Melinda, if you heard any of that, I ask you to keep it to yourself.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  It was dark and nothing was moving out on the tarmac, so they headed to the entrance to the terminal as fast as they could. The pain in Paulson’s leg was cutting through his entire body, but he tried to put it out of his mind. He’d been injured in combat and this was no different.

  When they entered the gate area, they found it eerily quiet. There were no people around, living or dead. The only movement was the flickering of computer screens automatically updating flight arrival and departure times. They passed through the waiting area into a retail corridor with a few shops and restaurants.

  Where were all the people? Could they all have just gone home when word of the virus hit the news? At such a small airport very few travelers, if any, would be expected at this hour and most of the airport night crew would probably have left before the blizzard hit.

  A loud and frantic high-pitched bark broke the silence and echoed through the halls of the dead airport. As they passed a small coffee shop, they found a pet crate, complete with barking pet, its owner nowhere in sight.

  Melinda, Paulson’s staffer, broke momentarily from the center of the group and headed over to the crate.

  “The poor thing is going to starve to death,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “We can’t just leave it here, trapped in the cage to die.”

  She reached down and opened the cage, and a small white poodle came out slowly, hesitating at first. Then it walked over to Melinda and began whining, pitifully. Melinda reached down to pet it, but the dog growled and barked loudly at her.

  “Aw, poor baby, she’s scared,” Melinda said.

  “Don’t touch anything,” McMiller yelled. “Leave the dog where it is and just keep moving.”

  The group had started walking when the dog turned and suddenly charged toward McMiller. Before he could move, the little thing bit him on the leg.

  “What the fuck! Stupid little dog,” he yelled, trying to kick it away. But the little poodle was strong and held on tight. It was obviously panicked and confused by the absence of its owner and the empty, unfamiliar surroundings of the airport. It didn’t help that they were wearing biohazard suits,
so the dog couldn’t tell what they were.

  McMiller kept kicking his leg, trying to dislodge the dog, and finally he reached down and grabbed it by the neck to wrench it away. As he did so, the dog tore a small hole in the leg of his biohazard suit and cut him with its sharp little teeth. Paulson watched a small line of blood trickle down McMiller’s calf. He threw the dog to the side and quickly reached down to cover up the hole. The little dog continued its terrified, frantic barking from a distance.

  Apparently the suit had been weakened from the heat of the flames back on the plane. That was the only explanation for such an easy breach of a sturdy bio-suit. Paulson wondered if his suit was weakened as well. They would have to be very careful until they made it to the base.

  “It’s just a small tear, I’ll be okay,” McMiller said into his microphone. “I have a repair kit with the suit.”

  He pulled a repair can from his waist and sprayed it on the tear. The spray sealed the hole completely, but Paulson didn’t know whether it was already too late for McMiller. The virus was in the air all around them, so even a tiny breach in one of their suits could be enough for it to get in and cause an infection. Paulson hoped McMiller was lucky. Surviving a plane crash only to die from a poodle bite minutes later would be a cruel irony.

  “Shit, come on,” Demetrius muttered. “Let’s keep moving,”

  Paulson glanced around as he walked. The small airport looked pretty much the same as it had when he visited before. It served the small town of Lewisburg, West Virginia, and Greenbrier County. The rural, sparsely populated area was a popular outdoor tourist destination offering hiking, skiing, and rafting on the rivers that ran through the Allegheny Mountains. The Greenbrier resort was actually located in the White Sulphur Springs, a small West Virginia town of about 3,000 people.

  They continued through the airport past the check-in aisles. An alarm when off when McMiller crossed through the metal detectors.

  “I guess they don’t get many passengers packing this sort of weaponry,” he joked, waving his gun in the air.

  Once they exited the main terminal, they hurried to the parking lot and found no hotel shuttles in sight. There were only a few cars in the lot and one truck. It was not enough to carry everyone, so Dr. Peebles suggested they try the rental car parking lot. In the Avis and Alamo lots they found three vans as well as a number of larger passenger vehicles.

  McMiller broke into the rental office and found the keys they needed, neatly labeled, on a pegboard. Paulson glanced around at the other survivors from the crash. They were a haggard bunch; many were injured. Paulson didn’t do a head count, but it looked like maybe thirty or so total. That meant they’d already lost over half of the original group. Damn, they weren’t having very good luck.

  Those who could drive grabbed keys from McMiller, and the injured were helped into the vehicles. Demetrius helped Paulson into a car and took the driver’s seat.

  They left in a caravan of about a dozen cars. They knew time was crucial and that the longer they were exposed to the air, the more likely that they’d contract the virus. As they drove down the long, quiet road leading away from the airport, Paulson looked back and saw the still burning remains of Air Force One lighting up the night. Whoever was responsible for the explosion would pay. He would see to that.

  The drive was slow. They pulled onto U.S. Route 60, according to the vehicle GPS. Because of the full moon, the outline of the Alleghenies was visible on the horizon in between passes of snow clouds. The highway was a long stretch of lonely road with leafless trees on both sides punctuated by small farms and several upscale housing developments.

  They passed one vehicle that had skidded off the slick road. Deep muddy skid marks showed where the driver tried to pry it loose from the snowpack. He or she had eventually given up and abandoned the car, probably hoping that a tow truck could come to the rescue later.

  The two-lane road ran along the valley floor and was fairly flat and straight, with just a few curves. It was, however, becoming slicker by the moment as the snowfall picked up. As Paulson’s body finally relaxed, he allowed his mind to wander.

  Gretchen should be at home now, asleep at the vice-presidential residence on the grounds of the Naval Observatory. He still couldn’t believe she might be gone. Probably was gone. They’d met when Paulson was at the Naval Academy and had been married fifty years. They’d raised three outstanding sons: Charles Junior, Chuck, who was in the military; Brent, a businessman in Seattle; and Jacob, long dead, but still in their hearts. And there was his little girl Charlotte, a homemaker and mother of three, who still called and talked to her old man at least three or four nights a week. Could they all be dead? Paulson had to hope that they somehow survived this horrible plague. They couldn’t be gone. They just couldn’t.

  Demetrius, cursing, suddenly jerked the steering wheel, and Paulson was pressed into the door, his broken leg pounding against it. A stabbing pain shot down his whole right side as the crushed bones scraped against each other, and Paulson let out a scream of agony.

  The car spun in one, two, three circles on the icy road and stopped after crashing into the vehicle in front of them. Only Demetrius’s skillful driving saved them from a direct hit. The vehicle up front had flown off the road and run head-on into a tree. Steam poured from the mangled front end. Demetrius jumped out and opened the door of the crashed vehicle.

  The motionless driver wore a bright orange bio-suit. Demetrius lifted the body up and tapped on the cracked visor. No movement. In the dim light, Paulson thought he saw blood, dripping in streaks, inside the visor.

  When Demetrius unhooked the helmet and pulled it off, Paulson saw the true horror inside. It was Lieutenant McMiller, whose suit had been ripped by the poodle just a short time earlier. His eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly, and his mouth and nose were covered in blood. Demetrius checked for a pulse and then shook his head.

  “There’s nothing we can do for him,” Demetrius said. “You two in the back, are you hurt? Hop in our car; we’ll take you the rest of the way.”

  As Demetrius got back in the car and backed it away from McMiller, he looked at Paulson and said, “It’s been only thirty minutes since his bio-suit was ripped by the dog. The CDC was right; this virus is an aggressive son of a bitch.”

  Paulson said nothing. He had his suspicions that McMiller had been drinking earlier. Had he run off the road as a result of being infected with the virus, or had he been driving drunk and lost control of the vehicle? Paulson didn’t recall him coughing or showing any of the symptoms of infection.

  Ten minutes later they arrived at the resort. It was just as picturesque as Paulson remembered. A five-star resort with a spa and golf course, it was a secluded getaway that catered to high-end clientele from around the world. The main building was an expansive white 1700s-style colonial manor house with over 700 rooms.

  It was beautiful in the snow.

  The secret 200,000-square-foot base was housed under the tennis courts. It had been designed as a Cold War bunker in case of a nuclear attack. Information on it had been made public in the early 1990s as the Cold War wound down, and hotel visitors could actually tour the bunker. As far as the public knew, the bunker had been declassified and decommissioned, with no plans for it to ever be used. The resort played up the link to the past by offering themed dinners in the main hall; the James Bond evening was a favorite. However, as Paulson had recently found out, the base was actually still operational and fully ready to house every elected federal official in an emergency. Military personnel typically staffed parts of the base as well. The top of the bunker was just a small part of the actual base, which had been expanded over the years.

  Ironic, wasn’t it, Paulson thought. A fully functional base right out in the open near a major resort. No one ever thought to look in the most obvious places.

  “The entrance to the shelter is located in the west wing,” Demetrius told Paulson, “under the medical clinic.” He gestured to the others as the
y got out of their cars and called out, “Follow me.”

  Demetrius helped Paulson out of the car, and they walked through the entrance of the grand old resort. The lobby was spectacular with its glorious chandeliers hanging from the domed ceiling. The walls were painted in wildly elaborate frescos depicting scenes from the Revolutionary War and other noteworthy events of American history.

  But there were no guests or hotel workers in sight. Where was everybody? The resort should be crowded with people this time of year. Paulson had a deep ache in his gut, a building fear that something wasn’t right.

  Demetrius had downloaded a blueprint of the resort onto his portable, so he knew where to find the bunker.

  After crossing through several large lavishly decorated ballrooms, they reached the entrance of the underground fallout bunker where they found the thick steel blast door standing wide open. A security guard post at the door was left unmanned.

  The base was coded into the classified net of the U.S. government. That meant Paulson could open the blast doors without a key by simply using a hand print, and facial and voice recognition. Of course the first blast door was a fake, there solely for tourists. The real blast doors to the secret base lay further inside.

  Demetrius walked in and the rest of the group followed him through the open blast doors. They walked down a long hallway into a dining hall where the resort conducted the themed dinner parties. Past that was a large lecture hall where the president was meant to address the nation in front of the full Congress. It was staged with Cold War artifacts, including a bulky old microphone, giant mainframe computers with tape-recording data reels, and various other technological relics.

  “This way,” Demetrius said. “The real entrance is behind the podium.” He pulled down the large American Flag and started running his hands over the wall. “I was told in a briefing several months ago that there was a switch here.” Before he finished speaking, a click sounded and part of the wood panel slid to the side, revealing a hand pad.