SecondWorld

by Jeremy Robinson

  When he heard the door close, he chanced a look. A lanky man stood at the door. His hair was blond and cropped close. Miller closed his eyes as the man turned toward him. He heard the man’s footsteps round the bed and peeked again. The man’s face was serious, his blue eyes intense. He wore a partially unbuttoned white shirt—sleeves rolled up. A 9mm Sig Sauer handgun hung on his hip. Miller sensed the man was dangerous, but he’d yet to see evidence that the man was his enemy.

  Miller closed his eyes and pondered the notion for just a moment. That’s when he realized the man wasn’t wearing a rebreather. He breathed freely. And Miller wasn’t wearing a mask either! He took a long slow breath, doing his damndest to not show a smile. The air was far from fresh, tinged with chemicals and detergents, but it smelled far better than his breath trapped within the confines of a plastic mask.

  Feeling his strength return, Miller took stock of his body. A dull pain pulsed through most of his limbs, but felt sharp on his wounded shoulder. He could tell by the tightness of his skin that the gash had been stitched. A mild headache behind his eyes was bearable. Otherwise he just felt exhausted.

  Through squinted eyes, Miller saw the blond man look out the window. He quickly searched the room. It was an average hospital room. Nothing special. The man’s suit jacket hung from a chair. No balloons. No flowers. No get-well-soon card.

  No Arwen.

  A sense of urgency took hold. His muscles tensed. And without a second thought, he acted.

  Miller sat up fast, happy to find himself not strapped down to the bed. He yanked the IV from his arm and jumped to his feet.

  The man guarding him heard the movement and turned. For a moment he looked surprised to see Miller barreling toward him, but he quickly adopted a more menacing posture. For all the good it did him. The man reached out and started to say something, but Miller couldn’t hear the words over the blood rushing past his ears. He took hold of the man’s wrist, twisted it behind his back, and slammed him against the large window. The man’s head struck the window with a loud bong. A moment later, Miller had the man’s handgun pressed against the side of his head.

  The man groaned, trying to turn in the direction of his twisted arm to reduce the pressure.

  “Where’s Arwen?” Miller said, his voice something like a lion’s growl.

  “Who?”

  Miller tightened his grip. The man’s voice had a slight Southern twang. Combined with the blond crew cut and blue eyes, that was damn near strike three.

  The man gritted his teeth.

  “Arwen. Little blond girl.”

  “Covered in burns?”

  “That’s her.”

  “I’m not sure, she—”

  Miller pushed the gun hard into the man’s temple.

  “I’m FBI!” the man shouted. “My badge is in my left pocket.”

  Miller considered this. Was it possible? Had they really escaped that pink hell?

  “I’d have to let go of your arm to check the pocket,” Miller said.

  “You’d still have a gun to my head.”

  He had a point, and by now the man understood that if Miller wanted to kill him, he could. He released the man’s arm and slowly reached into his pocket. A moment later he was looking at a photo ID badge that matched the man’s face and read ROGER BRODEUR.

  “This could be fake,” Miller said, stepping back, but keeping the gun raised. “How do I know you’re not one of them?”

  “Have you looked out the window?” Brodeur said while rubbing his arm.

  Miller turned his focus away from Brodeur and looked out the window. The first thing he saw was blue sky—an endless blue sky. He felt some of the tension in his chest fade. Then he saw the Capitol building far in the distance. “We’re in D.C.?”

  “George Washington University Hospital.” Brodeur sat on the bed. “The National Guard picked you up at the redline—that’s what they’re calling the border outside of Miami. On account of the sky being red.”

  “I get it.”

  “How’d you survive?”

  “Long story.”

  “S’pose it is.”

  “How many others survived?”

  “The ones that thought to leave the affected area right away pulled through fine. Just over two hundred thousand people. The rest either never made it out or left after the iron had already poisoned their bodies. Nothing to be done at that point.”

  “How many?”

  “You really should be resting.”

  “How many?”

  “Two point two million dead. The affected area in the U.S. stretches from Miami to the Keys. Tokyo and Tel Aviv were hit too. We don’t have the numbers, but the population of Tokyo alone is nearly thirteen million. If you apply the same survival ratio that we have in Miami…”

  Miller shook his head. “Why?”

  “No one knows.”

  Miller lowered the gun down and took a seat. He rubbed his forehead with his free hand. Two point two million people dead in southern Florida. It didn’t seem possible. But he, perhaps more than anyone, knew it was true. He’d seen the bodies.

  “Far as anyone can tell, you and the girl are the only survivors.”

  Miller shook his head. “No, we’re not.”

  Brodeur’s eyes went wide. “There are others? Where are they?”

  “Right where I left them, would be my guess. Maybe forty in Miami. Another five in Hell.” Miller stood. “Take me to Arwen.”

  “You’re saying they’re hostile?”

  “I’ll tell you everything I know just as soon as I confirm that the girl is safe.”

  Brodeur looked at the gun in Miller’s hand. “Gonna shoot me if I don’t?”

  Miller turned the gun around and handed it back to Brodeur, who holstered it.

  “You fight something fierce for an NCIS man.”

  With a grin, Miller said, “You know who I am?”

  “Course,” Brodeur said, motioning to a file folder sitting on top of the dresser. “Been here for ten minutes is all. Washington P.D. was guarding you until I got here.”

  “You’re supposed to be my guard?”

  Brodeur’s face reddened. “Yeah, well, you kind of caught me with my pants down.”

  Miller looked down at his hospital gown. “Speaking of which, can I get some clothes?”

  Ten minutes later, Miller was dressed in new jeans and a T-shirt. The hospital didn’t have shoes, so he’d been given back the boat shoes he’d taken from Dave’s Scuba back in Key Largo. He’d stared at the shoes for a moment.

  “You okay?” Brodeur asked with a tone of genuine concern.

  “They’re not my shoes,” Miller said.

  “The nurse says you came in with them on.”

  “Took them from a dead man.”

  “Oh.”

  Miller stared at the shoes and then slowly slid them onto his feet. For a moment he felt the hot Miami pavement pounding beneath his feet as he pushed Arwen to the Tesla dealership, the tingle of his foot after he’d slammed the car’s accelerator to the floor for an hour, and the slip of the dirt beneath his feet when he fought the sniper.

  Brodeur’s next words erased it all. “The girl—Arwen—she’s in the burn ward.”

  Miller pushed past him, exited the room, and headed for the elevator. Brodeur did nothing to stop him. He knew better than to get in the way of a Navy SEAL, especially one tough enough to survive what Miller had.

  With his finger hovering in front of the elevator button, Miller froze.

  “Sure you don’t want the doctors to check you out again, first?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with my body. I’m just not sure I can face her again.”

  Brodeur didn’t ask, but the question hung in the air regardless—why not? He looked at Brodeur. “If she’s there. If she’s real. Then it’s all real.”

  “Then let me be the one to spoil things for you,” Brodeur said. “It’s all real.”

  Miller grinned. He was beginning to like Brodeur. The ma
n didn’t mince words. He pushed the Down button and said, “Well, then that sucks for you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  The doors opened and the pair stepped in.

  “Because things are going to get worse.”

  The doors closed.

  “A lot worse.”

  19

  Miller found Arwen in a hospital room very similar to the one in which he’d first discovered her. The only real difference was the number of windows and the view through them. The oxygen tent was clear plastic now, instead of opaque like the one she’d had in Miami, and he could see her lying there, looking toward the window. He imagined she felt skittish and afraid after everything they’d been through.

  “How long does it take to get some pudding around here?” she said.

  Or not.

  “Sorry,” Miller said. “I’m all out of pudding.”

  She turned toward him, smiling with her eyes, but not her hurt mouth. “Linc!”

  “They didn’t even offer me food,” he said.

  “You should have asked. Seriously. They’ll get you anything you want.”

  Miller had no doubt she was right. They had survived the impossible, and she was a pretty girl with extensive injuries. If she asked for the moon it’s likely someone would try to find a way to deliver it to her.

  She lifted the tent up. “Better come in. They told me I needed to keep this down most of the time. Guess my skin didn’t like all that time out in the open.”

  When Arwen scooted over, Miller noticed she wasn’t wincing in pain. The burns still hurt, but the experiences of the last few days had toughened her. He could see it in her eyes. He climbed under the tent and lay next to her on the bed.

  They stared at each other for a moment, for the first time without the fear of death between them. Arwen began to cry. “They asked about my family. Said I’d eventually have to go live with someone because they’re all dead.”

  “No aunts or uncles?”

  “They all lived around Miami.”

  Damn.

  Miller searched his mind for something to say, but came up blank. He wasn’t always great with emotions, and certainly not with expressing them—except maybe for anger. But then he understood what she was looking for. “I’m going to be here. I’ll help figure things out, even if you have to come live with me.”

  She relaxed and laid her head on the pillow and wiped away her tears with her good arm. “Thanks.”

  “Okay,” said a woman as she entered the room. “Pudding time.” The nurse holding a pudding cup saw Miller and her face transformed from bubbly happy to righteous anger. “Hey, what the hell are you—”

  Arwen leaned up. “It’s okay. I want him here.”

  The nurse was confused by Arwen’s defense of the strange man in her room. She was about to ask Miller to leave again when Arwen continued.

  “Do you know who he is?” Arwen asked. “Don’t you recognize him?”

  The nurse looked from Arwen to Miller. Then her eyes went wide. “Oh … oh, I’m sorry.”

  Miller said nothing. He was too confused.

  “No one offered him a pudding. Can he have one?”

  “Uh, sure. What flavor?”

  “Chocolate,” Arwen said.

  “Sure. I’ll—I’ll be right back.” The nurse left.

  “How’d you know I like chocolate?”

  “Who doesn’t like chocolate?”

  Miller grinned.

  Arwen frowned. “She didn’t leave my pudding, did she?”

  “Nope.”

  Arwen rolled her eyes, and said, “Some people, I swear.”

  Miller thought she must have been quoting one of her mother’s catchphrases. All parents have them. The facial expressions and mannerisms were too adult. He knew he was right when fresh sadness crept into her eyes.

  He distracted her with a question. “How did you know she would recognize me? Were you awake when they brought us in?”

  “They had the TV on for me. Let me watch some cartoons. But the news came on after. Mostly it talked about Miami. And Tokyo. And a new attack in someplace called Tel Aviv. They said that people there knew what to do, though. Most of them got away.” Arwen shifted, getting more comfortable. “Anyway, after that they talked about us. Said our names. Showed your picture a lot. Said what they knew about us, which was mostly about you. We’re famous.”

  Miller wasn’t sure how to reply. Arwen’s face was a mix of emotions. She enjoyed the idea of being famous, but recognized that it was fame for all the wrong reasons.

  Before he could speak, a quick knock on the door interrupted.

  “Miller.”

  It was Brodeur.

  “Can it wait?” Miller said.

  “Wish it could.”

  Miller wanted to complain, but stowed it. They were on the same team and Brodeur was just doing his job.

  Brodeur sensed his apprehension and added, “Someone’s here to see you.”

  Miller raised an eyebrow. “Someone?”

  “POTUS.”

  Miller’s voice caught in his throat.

  POTUS.

  Arwen saw the change in Miller’s body language. “Who’s POTUS?”

  “Someone you don’t keep waiting,” he said, sliding out from the tent.

  “But who’s POTUS?”

  “Know what an acronym is?”

  “I think so.”

  “Each letter of POTUS stands for a word.”

  “Like scuba? Self-contained underwater whatever.”

  “Exactly,” he said as he closed the tent behind him. “You think on it. Tell me who it is when I get back.”

  “’Kay.”

  Miller stepped into the hallway, wondering why the president of the United States had come to see him at the hospital. Sure, he was one of two survivors to escape Miami, but Hell had come to Earth. If the president was here to pin a medal, or worse, use the meeting as a PR opportunity, then Miller would tell him to go fuck himself. He saw an army of Secret Service agents in the hallway ahead and made a mental note to use more polite terms when he told POTUS to go fuck himself.

  When the waiting room door opened and Miller was ushered into the room, he saw the president’s face and knew, without a doubt, that there would be no medals pinned, and no PR spun. The man looked like he’d gone a few rounds with the Grim Reaper, and the way he sat in the chair said that the next bell could ring at any second.

  20

  Miller had never met President Arnold Bensson, but had seen the man on TV enough to recognize him as easily as family. He was a handsome African-American man with a manicured smile and casual and relaxed appearance. He spent a lot of time giving interviews to unusual media sources, including a lot of comedy shows. He couldn’t play the sax like Clinton, but he knew how to work a crowd. But what Miller liked most about the president was that when it came down to the nitty-gritty business of armed combat and homeland defense, Bensson never backed down from the tough calls. And he’d made a few, even when they were unpopular.

  Now, he looked defeated.

  Or at least on the ropes.

  “Mr. President,” Miller said as he instinctively stiffened his posture.

  Bensson stood and shook his hand. “You did good work out there, Miller.”

  Miller stopped pumping his hand. “Hope that’s not what this is about.”

  A small grin appeared on Bensson’s face. “I thought I’d like you.” He returned to his maroon-cushioned chair and leaned his head against the wall.

  Miller sat across from Bensson and saw him as just another man—tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, looking desperate for a beer. “If you don’t mind, sir, you pulled me away from a pudding date.”

  “She’s a lucky girl.”

  “Hardly,” Miller said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “Her parents, her brother, and every other member of her family are dead. She’s been shot at, nearly asphyxiated on multiple occasions, and seen enough dead bodies to keep her in therapy for the
rest of her life.”

  The president nodded. “Like I said. Lucky. It’s a rare person that can face those kinds of odds and come out alive. You’re that person. Without you, she’d—well, you know how things would have turned out.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re here to pat me on the back.”

  “Not at all.” Bensson leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m here because I trust you.”

  “Trust me? We’ve only just met.”

  Bensson nodded. “There are no microphones in this room. No cameras or recording devices. It’s just us. Everything said will be between us. I had a ten-minute argument with the small army of Secret Service agents watching my back now. And they won’t come in until we open the door.”

  That didn’t sound very smart to Miller. “How do you know I’m not a threat?”

  Bensson gave a sheepish grin. “If you wanted me to suffer, you’d let me live anyway. Death would be the easy way out of this mess.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you trust me. Or why you need someone you trust.”

  “I trust you because you survived.”

  “I got news for you. There are other survivors in Miami. And they’re far from trustworthy.”

  With a slight nod, the president said, “We have satellite images of gangs roaming Miami. And we all saw the symbol on the news.”

  “They’ve been tagging it all around the city, too.”

  Bensson shook his head. “Nazis. It’s just too much.”

  The president seemed to be fading into angry distraction. Miller tried to pull him back to the conversation. “You were telling me why you trusted me.”

  Bensson looked up, his eyes focusing on Miller. “Mostly it’s because of the girl.” He took a photo out of his pocket and showed it to Miller. The image showed Miller on the ground. Arwen lay beneath him. This was the moment of their rescue. Of their near death. “You nearly died trying to save her. These SecondWorld bastards have so little regard for life that I can’t see any one of them trying so desperately to save hers.”