SHATTER: Epoch’s End Book 2: (A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller Series) (Epoch's End)

by Mike Kraus

  Three members of the facility staff remove the wall decorations; portraits of former presidents, pictures of shuttle launches from the Kennedy Space Center, and grand images of Navy ships are brought down. There’s even a small painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware River that makes its way out the door in the hands of a rushing staffer. A woman lifts the presidential seal from the wall and follows the facility staff out of the room while others remove chairs, office supplies, printers, and projectors. More IT people crawl beneath the long table, unhooking cables and routers and throwing them into a rat’s nest of gear.

  An aide transporting a stack of notebooks feints sideways to avoid someone coming the other way and they miss colliding, but his load destabilizes and slides from his arms to hit the floor with a bang.

  “Sorry, Mr. President,” the aide glances sidelong at him before falling to his knees to scoop up the documents.

  “It’s okay,” Zimmerman says. He stoops to pick up two notebooks and hands them over, and the aide thanks him and carries the stack from the room. The president stands and steps back to give the facility teams more space, watching as the two flags flanking the presidential seal are delicately lifted from their racks and hurried out of the room.

  With a shake of his head, the president turns to the group of uniformed and suited figures behind him. “It’s so damn depressing. Is this really necessary?”

  “It’s absolutely necessary.” Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Mark Davidson, nods stiffly. “We need to change locations immediately to ensure the safety of you and your family.”

  “When will they arrive at Liberty One?”

  His key staffer, Maxine, leans in from his left. She’s smaller in stature than the general but no less sharp in her jacket and skirt. “They’re in route from a conference as we speak and should be there in ten hours.”

  The president fixes her with a warm look. “Your son?”

  “He’s with my mother in Cincinnati. They should be okay for now.”

  “Call them and let them know a chopper will be by to pick them up.”

  “Really, Mr. President? You don’t have to do that.”

  He levels his gaze at her before drawing her away to a corner of the room where they can talk in private. Once there, he turns to face her, a somber expression on his face as Maxine stares up at him with her smart brown eyes, sharp but relaxed, blinking as she waits for him to start.

  “You know I won’t take no for an answer, Max. Your boy and your parents are coming with us.”

  “There’s more important people to see to,” she protests calmly, “those involved with running the country.”

  “And who’ll keep those people running?” The president gives her a disbelieving look. “Do you think I’ll suddenly not need your services anymore?”

  Maxine shifts uncertainly, eyes falling to the floor.

  “What is it? You can speak freely.”

  “The memos went out yesterday, sir. Critical personnel and their families only allowed at the Liberty One site. I’m not listed as critical personnel. That would be folks like Admiral Spencer, or General Davidson.”

  “We’ll make an exception in your case.”

  “I’m not sure you can, sir.” Maxine’s tone remains cool and professional, her eyes flat with finality. “It’s NSC policy, sir. When you leave this bunker, I’ll be assigned somewhere else for the length of the crisis.”

  Jaw fixed, he tries to imagine making it through the next months without Maxine’s sharp skills. In truth, he’s probably allowed her more access than she had any right to have, yet she was pivotal in keeping him on track.

  “Look, I’ll pull a few strings. You’re coming to Liberty One with us. There’s plenty of room.”

  “You don’t need to--”

  “That’s the end of the conversation, Max. You’ve been critical to me staying on point with meetings and notes. You understand what I need to see and when I need to see it. And I know you’ve been assisting the vice president, secretary of state, and joint chiefs. Quite a few people depend on you.”

  “Sir, I only help them when I can,” Maxine stammers, for the first time seeming uncertain. “You’ve always been my top priority.”

  The president grins. “You’re damn right I am, but if you think these people aren’t going to fight to get you onboard, you’re crazy. You’re the best staffer we’ve ever had, and we’ll need that at Liberty One.”

  Maxine’s chin lifts. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, as soon as we’re done with this meeting, I want you to prep your family for travel. Let me know what authorizations or signatures or ass-kickings you need to make things happen. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The pair return to the group of suits and uniforms, Maxine with a slight hop in her step as she gestures toward the door. “Let’s move into Conference Room B so these folks can work.”

  The president, his advisors, staff, and bodyguards exit the main conference room and jam into a smaller one at the end of the hall, half the size of the first one with none of the amenities. The president takes a seat as a pair of low-level staffers make their rounds, taking requests for beverages or food if anyone needs it. He orders a black coffee and settles back, loosening his tie as his eyes trace around the room and General Davidson tosses a notebook down in front of him.

  “Details of the latest operation.”

  He stares at the words “Top Secret” stamped across the cover. He doesn’t want to open it. Dreads opening it. But he finally does, flipping through the laminated pages slowly as he studies each one. His eyes wander over photos of the compound the SEAL unit is about to hit. There's a command center, a small landing field, and several other munitions buildings and key structures. The president takes note of the guard towers, fence, and naked desert stretching between the target and hills where the team will insert, tasked with infiltrating hostile territory to secure targets and vital information.

  He turns to his right where Admiral Spencer sits. “Do you have an update on the operation?”

  The heavyset man lowers his phone and gives a terse nod. “The SEAL team is on target, sir. They’ll insert in an hour.”

  “Remember, they’re not to use lethal force,” he reminds the admiral, fixing him with a stern look. “They’re our allies, after all.”

  “For now,” one of the suits at the back of the room says.

  “I’ve made my lieutenant aware,” the admiral’s jowls shake as he ignores the suit, “but that’ll be a tall order. Things could get tense out there.”

  The president nods and sighs. “It’s too late to second guess ourselves. I hope we remain allies after this, but I don’t see how it’ll be possible.”

  He continues flipping through the pages, studying phases, decision points, and contingency strategies. His eyes fall across the potential casualty numbers and his breath locks in his lungs.

  “What’s the earliest time for an annexation?”

  “That depends on the information we gather from the operation. We could have our forces in place within two weeks.”

  “What about international blowback?”

  “It will be fierce,” Davidson nods stoically.

  The president is amazed that the general can keep up his hard exterior even as the brittle threads of the government are beginning to come apart at the seams, though that’s precisely why he made the man a personal advisor years ago. Steadfastness in the heat of battle is worth more than gold these days.

  “We expect strong objections from the UK, Canada and France,” Mark continues, “and outright condemnation from Russia and China. We’re hoping by that time everyone else will have their own problems to deal with, though. They’ll be fighting for every ounce of warmth they can muster, doing whatever they have to in order to survive. They’ll have their own insurrections to deal with and anything that’s been simmering in these countries for years will end up boiling over. They’ll have to redraw new bord
ers, secure them, and quell coups. Soon, what we’re doing will be the norm, not the exception.”

  “If we’re lucky,” Navy Admiral Spencer adds, “someone else will jump the gun and take the attention off us being first.”

  “And where will that lead us?” The president shakes his head. “Outright war with the victors?”

  The suits and uniforms don’t have an answer for him, so he presses on in a stoic tone, borrowing a page from General Davidson’s book. “We’re entering a new phase of the operation, and things are about to get extremely difficult. There’s no going back and no way to spin off what we’re doing. If the mission fails, the mask will be thrown off and our intentions exposed. The White House Press Secretary has her orders, and she’ll do the best she can to deny and disavow. The international community will come down on us hard no matter what, though.”

  “We’ll succeed,” Admiral Spencer spits the words, his heavy jowls jiggling. “I have the utmost confidence in my SEALS. They’re the best we have. If they can’t do it, no one can.”

  “I’m sure they are, Ben.” The president nods. Then he shifts gears, his mind already on other things beyond the special ops mission and move to Liberty One. “And what about Iran, the EU’s, and Russia’s nuclear arsenals? With things falling apart like this, someone’s going to try to steal those key codes, arm the weapons, and start World War Three.”

  “That’s a genuine concern, sir,” Davidson agrees, rolling with the president as easy as grease. “But as you know, we have operations on standby if we must intervene. Our people on the inside will raise the alarms if they think those codes are in danger of falling into the wrong hands.”

  The president nods, satisfied with the answer, though it’s not like he has much of a choice. A staffer sticks her head through the door and calls Maxine over. The woman stands and goes over, listening, bobbing her swan-like neck before turning back to the room.

  “Attention everyone; it’s time to transport the president to Liberty One.”

  Zimmerman stands and addresses the group. “You all have your jobs. Godspeed to you, and above all, I want open communication and transparency from everyone in this room. We’re going to be dealing with hell on earth here soon – let’s try to stay together on this.” Those in the room nod with certainty, their eyes locked on the leader of the free world.

  “Please, Mr. President.” Maxine holds out her hand to him to indicate it’s time to go.

  He gives them one last look before he exits the room with Davidson, Spencer, Maxine, and his guards in tow. They traverse a long, pristine hallway and enter an elevator. Standing aside, the staff waits for the president to put his hand against the security palm reader until the light clicks green, then he presses a button, and the car rises.

  At the top, the doors slide open, exposing them to roaring winds, Zimmerman stepping onto an air pad surrounded by craggy mountains. Marine One, the big Sikorsky VH-3D Sea King, squats in the center, a whale of an aircraft, shaking and shivering with power as it waits for the president to board. They approach the chopper as it churns wind around their heads, the president ducking aside as particles of dirt and detritus whisk against his skin. Spencer and Davidson climb the stairs and enter the aircraft while Maxine stands off to the side. The president turns and gestures for her to step aboard, but a secret service man quickly strides over and blocks her entry.

  “Sir, the staff at Liberty One will see to you once you arrive.”

  “Maxine’s coming with us,” the president insists. “She’s holding the critical mission information we’ll need at the new site.”

  “We can have that information transferred for you.”

  “But Maxine understands it better than anyone. She’s been in all the meetings, and she knows the players. We need her at Liberty One.”

  “Let her come aboard,” Spencer shouts from inside the crew quarters, his gruff voice barely audible over Marine One’s rising turbine whine.

  The secret service man levels an uncertain gaze at the president. “Sir, this is highly irregular.”

  “We’re dealing with a lot of highly irregular things lately,” he grumbles loudly into the man’s ear as his hair whips in every direction. “Step aside. Now.”

  The man puts his finger to his earpiece and listens to someone speaking. After three seconds, he nods and moves out of the way. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Thank you.” The president gestures for Maxine to board and she approaches the stairwell slowly, staring up at the massive aircraft.

  “Come on, Max. We don’t have all day.”

  The staffer flashes him a wonderous grin as she boards the aircraft, dropping her emotional wall. The president takes one look around the air pad at the military personnel and staffers he’s leaving behind, certain it’s the last time he’ll see them. As he turns and enters the cabin, the door rises and shuts with a thud and click of locks. Three minutes later, Marine One lifts off and heads southward toward the Liberty One site.

  Chapter 6

  Tom, Virginia Beach, Virginia

  They walked for an hour or more, slogging along the windswept road as the wind and rain pummeled them like a tireless prize fighter. Their waterlogged clothes hung off them and weighed them down, hair dangling into their faces, water dripping beyond annoyance. Jerry had kept up but was growing noticeably weaker, sometimes slipping and slumping to the point that Tom had to heave him up hard, the young man groaning as his injured right arm swung around, the bandages soaked through with saltwater and rain. Aches gripped Tom’s back, his foot throbbed and his legs felt like rubber, but still he gritted his teeth and cinched Jerry against him, body bent with cramps as he put one foot in front of the other, taking it one, two, three steps at a time.

  They passed through residential neighborhoods where the storm had wrought astounding damage, stripping every other house of its roof, wood and vinyl skins taken down to the bare wood framing. Swing sets and fences had blown over, some carried across to neighbors’ yards or tossed haphazardly into the street, and a few had impaled themselves into the sides of homes, smashing windows and gouging deep holes.

  Driveways sat mostly abandoned, the few vehicles still left sitting alone on the side of the road, their windows broken, hoods dented. One vehicle sat on the street, roof crushed by a fallen limb, looking like something out of a movie set rather than reality.

  “Looks like everyone bolted after the first hurricane warnings,” Tom mumbled, receiving a grunt from Jerry in return.

  As they walked, they watched for pieces of wood with nails sticking out or other sharp objects hidden beneath the undulating floodwaters that sometimes crossed their path. Sudden wind gusts blew stinging rain into their faces, forcing them to look down or turn away. Tom stiffened as a wave rolled over the road and hit their knees, Samantha latching onto his arm as Tom became the anchor, holding the trio steady. They leaned left as the water receded, feet planted to keep from being dragged down to the asphalt. Once it had passed, they continued on, eyes scouring the roadways and skies for more surprises. Tom saw no signs of life, and the closest houses remained powerless as the wind howled and whistled through the eaves, leaving them feeling more isolated and alone than he had felt in a very long time.

  “Still with me, Jerry?”

  “I’m here. Just so tired.”

  “Do you want to rest?”

  “No.” Jerry picked himself up as if Tom had woken him from a snooze, lifting his feet higher and renewing his lurching gait. “I keep looking up at those lights, hoping they’re from Virginia Beach. If so, my house should be close.” He stared at the array of destruction all around them. “I’m not going to lie, though, all this’s got me a little worried.”

  “Is your house close to the street?”

  “No, it’s set back from the road, so it should be okay… I hope.”

  “That’s good news.” Tom shared Jerry’s worry about what they might find, but tried to keep the conversation relatively positive. “We’ll keep
walking until you want take a break.”

  The main road thinned to two lanes, and the houses squeezed closer together, but the change didn’t stop the storm. Swirling dervishes whipped up miniature funnels that spun across the concrete and hit them, bursting into mist as pieces of siding and shingles drifted lazily through the air, debris twirling by and glancing off them.

  “I know this is exhausting,” Tom tried to sound hopeful, “but things seem to be calming down. The wind has definitely backed off since I stood at the bridge earlier.”

  “Oh, that’s great news, Dad.” Sam shivered next to him, her arms clenched in front of her, shoulders hunched over with cold. “Glad to know the storm is letting up. Could you please tell the storm that?”

  Jerry scoffed weakly. “Yeah, Tom. This is like a walk in the park. If the park had a hurricane in it.”

  The pair laughed, and Tom chuckled softly at his own expense before sobering quickly in the chilly wind and rain. Ten minutes passed, and Sam drew his attention off to their left.

  “Whoa.”

  They slowly shuffled past an overturned car smashed into a power pole, then slowed to a stop and stared at it. A mid-sized, black sedan with its front end weighed down and its tires sticking up in the air, the taillights were shattered, and the rear passenger wheel spun lazily in the wind.

  “How’d it get like that?” Jerry wondered aloud.

  “I’d say a wave caught it, flipped it, and shoved it into the pole.” Tom shook his head. “Must have happened when the hurricane made landfall.”

  “I feel sorry for the people inside,” Sam said, squinting.

  “Are… are they still in there?” Jerry voiced what they were all thinking.

  Tom squinted at the vehicle's rain-slicked and dirt-covered windows, unable to determine if the shadows in the seats were actually dead bodies.

  “Wait here.” He slipped from beneath Jerry’s arm, leaving the young man standing on his own, and ambled toward the road, half crouching to get a better view. When he reached the window, he bent and wiped his hand across it, sending droplets flying. As he squatted and looked inside, he spotted a pair of heads dangling upside down, hair and heads swirling six inches under the water, hands and forearms swaying against the roof of the vehicle as the water lapped back and forth. Tom’s chest deflated with a pang of dread. The wave must have caught them off guard, submerging them before they could escape their seat belts, leaving them trapped, drowning in less than a foot of brine.