Twenty-Seven
Prior to the turn of the twentieth century, the wealthy of Europe, along with a handful of members from the new market that was the United States of America, had met in Vienna in a plush hotel ballroom. Lavish dining tables had replaced the old wooden seats for the event, with a select and discreet waiter for each table. An oath had been sworn by all of the staff never to reveal what they heard or who they saw at the gathering. Representatives from the royal families were present, along with influential military commanders. A well-respected string quartet played soft chamber music all weekend long, and the guests were often heard remarking how they wished they could “have them play in my chamber.” The music became the most memorable part of the gathering and soon entered the language of the participants. It followed, then, that when they referred to themselves or to the meeting, the word “chamber” arose, and it soon became synonymous with the inaugural meeting and its members.
There were many topics for discussion, all business- or industry-related, about how they could be monopolized by this new group. The European financier Henry Stewman gloated to all and sundry of how he had locked up the political system of the “emerging market,” and the future looked prosperous. The market he referred to was the United States of America.
Had the men who fought the Revolutionary War known that financiers from the very country they sought independence from had colluded in the outcome for economic control, they would have rolled over in their graves. All the fighting, the deaths, amounted to little. It had been arranged.
It was rumored that Stewman’s great-grandfather had financed the final push by the revolutionary forces when it became clear they had the upper hand. Grandfather Stewman, a gambler, had always made sure of the winner before he made his wager. He kept an interested eye on all parties involved—the French, the English, as well as the colonists. He even took an interest in the natives—or Indians, as they were called—who had been misled by all sides. It became worse for them years later when they lost all rights to the land their ancestors had roamed for thousands of years. Now they were a valuable commodity for all sides. They were used as cheap cannon fodder or to initiate hostile actions.
After the turmoil of the War of Independence and the hardship that followed, the United States entered into another war with the British. When not fighting wars with other countries, they fought among themselves. The Civil War was to free the country from the abominable practice of slavery, but it divided the country further. After the Civil War, the United States stuck its chest out into the world arena, fully believing it was a major player.
Stewman and his partners made a fortune even by present-day standards during this war, selling weapons and ammunition to both sides. They didn’t care who won, as long as it didn’t affect business.
As commerce grew in the United States, trade and banking became crucial, and Stewman was right there to take full advantage. Financial institutions were bankrolled by Stewman, with the most affluent and prominent from these institutions invited to the inaugural meeting in Vienna. Stewman and his sons, through these local bankers, became the primary backers of both political parties. Stewman—and later, other Chamber members—was able to influence policies of the government to the benefit of the Chamber.
The control of electricity was one such topic at the meeting, as was the newest commodity: oil. With the advent of the motorized vehicle, it didn’t take too much imagination to see that the desire to own one would grow in the not-too-distant future. This meant more plants to make these vehicles, which meant more oil would be needed to make more gasoline, which would lead to more money. One foot after the other. Turning a profit was as simple as walking…. Well, it was to the Chamber.
“The profit will be enormous, particularly for the future,” Stewman illuminated the others, “and when it is tied to a centralized banking system—ours, of course—we’ll have the world in our pockets.”
After finance, commodities, and politics had been discussed at length, the last topic up for discussion was the population of the world. Specifically, how its increase was good now, but in the future, it would have the opposite effect, draining resources and therefore money.
To the members of the Chamber, that was unacceptable. There wasn’t any profit in a planet without resources.
Henry Stewman addressed the situation as follows: “There is still much to be had from this world. A high population in perpetual demand of these commodities is necessary, but the size must constantly be monitored. When it comes to the point where the population exceeds the level of resources available … then it’s too late.”
The world still had not reached a population of two billion at the time of the Chamber’s first meeting, and yet it was already concerned.
The level of foresight shown by this secret group would propel it to the top in all facets of society. The meeting was considered a success by any standard, and it was agreed to meet once a year in a different country. Bylaws and guidelines were adopted and would continue to be refined. A world to look forward to was how it was presented. Not so much for the current members—though they couldn’t complain—but for their children and grandchildren. What better legacy to leave?
Yes, it was a good time to be alive … if you were fortunate enough to be part of the Chamber.
In less than a century, the Chamber’s influence and control had multiplied a hundredfold. Every corner of the globe felt its presence. Every major conflict in the world had the Chamber’s blood-stained handprint on the shoulders of the political and military players in the game. For the Chamber, that was exactly what it was: a game. It mattered not which side won or lost, be they black or white, right or left, pro-democracy or totalitarian. The Chamber played no favorites as long as it won in the end. And win it did.
The guidelines adopted in the group’s first meeting changed over the years until they were refined into an almost commandment-like doctrine. In 1980, a structure was erected in the American state of Georgia, dubbed the Georgia Guidestones. It consisted of six granite slabs, over nineteen feet high and weighing in excess of 200,000 pounds. It consisted of a central column, with four slabs arranged diagonally from the corners of the center beam. They were the same height. A sixth stone, the capstone, rested on top. Ten guidelines were inscribed into each slab face in eight modern languages and four ancient languages, engraved along the edge of the square they sat on. It had been rumored among many that the guides were a testament to the intentions of the Chamber. The first guide or principle stated: Maintain humanity under 500,000,000 in perpetual balance with nature. This was in keeping with the view first voiced by Stewman all those years ago at the first meeting.
The Chamber had established this number as a goal in the late 1960s, with overpopulation and the threat of nuclear weapons being used by unstable political and military leaders a source of concern.
The “balance with nature” principle presented on the guidestones was laughable. Chamber members and their subsidiaries had stripped the world of its resources like the pirates of old had plundered the seven seas. The focus of the Chamber’s plunder was the whole planet and the wealth it contained.
There was no official link between the Chamber and the Georgia Guidestones, which was understandable. The Chamber didn’t officially exist. However, to think it was mere coincidence that all the wealth and the industries belonged to the same one percent of the population—along with all of the decisions that favored them—was akin to the belief that a big fat guy in a red suit crawled down the chimneys of houses one night every year.
Decisions had to be made. The population was increasing at an alarming rate, and the resources were not as abundant as they once were. The elite of the Chamber had made their trillions. They owned or controlled everything of importance on the planet. It was time to enjoy the fruits the world had to offer, while there was still fruit on the tree. To sustain them in the lifestyle to which they were accustomed, it was thought that no more than half a billion p
eople would be needed. These people, who would support the elite of this new world order, would be more than amply rewarded for their servitude.
It was proposed that a worldwide disease or contaminant be used to depopulate the planet. The question of how to deliver such a toxin so it affected only the intended targets, remained. When the Reverend Jim Jones organized the mass suicide of his followers in Guyana, it became the template from which the Chamber’s ideas would come. Fast food, particularly burgers and fries, were considered the diet of the masses … of the poor. It was decided then that fast food restaurants would be the distribution point for the pathogen. While key biochemists in the employ of the Chamber worked at perfecting a virus and a method of masking it from detection, the unwitting catalyst the Chamber needed to unleash it upon the world stepped forward.
Phillip Baer, a greedy and self-absorbed individual, arrived on the scene with a desire to corner the insecticide and fertilizer market. When he’d achieved this, at least in North America, he turned his attention to the vegetables themselves, especially potatoes. A native of Idaho, he knew the number of potatoes harvested every year for the fast food chains and the bags of frozen fries at the supermarkets. The riches he could accumulate were staggering. The Chamber had found its patsy, and was more than happy to accommodate him in the achievement of his goals—without his knowledge, of course.
The haste Baer was in to secure wealth and power meant he didn’t notice the lack of obstacles in his quest for a “super-sized” potato. He found only answers—fast answers. Everything ran smoothly as well-placed agents of the Chamber saw to it that Baer’s dreams would become a reality.
Mr. Holmes had presented himself as a wealthy investor to Phillip Baer and was able to place agents throughout Baer’s empire on behalf of the Chamber. Two such agents, CIA biochemist Paul Dennard and Mr. Langlie, were brought specifically to Baer’s attention when he spoke of his desire to produce a potato that was more than double the size of anything available, something “so big all the farmers will want to grow it.”
Within a matter of months, Dennard produced a potato as big as a football. “Now we’re getting somewhere!” Baer had roared with delight. A one-hundred-acre test farm was set up to begin growing the new variety while Baer, because of the chemicals involved in the process, sought approval from the FDA. This, too, was a forgone conclusion—the Chamber controlled every aspect of the operation.
Other men brought in by Holmes, enforcers like Charles Black, would ensure it ran without a mishap. It all fit into a nice, neat package until that madman Hadlee came along. His tactical missile plan could have killed off the pathogen before it had a chance to do the job for which it was intended.
The fly that got into the ointment jar, however, was the pathogen itself. Far deadlier than planned and with many side effects as yet unknown—unless you happened to live in Idaho, or Montana, or Oregon—the speed with which it spread was faster than the forest fire General Stodge believed would contain it.
The hordes of foamers who wandered the streets baying for blood or flesh—or whatever they would bay at—grew rapidly in other countries. The higher the presence of fast food chains or potato byproducts from the United States, the more expeditious was the appearance of foamers.
For the Chamber members in the United States, it was time to head to the nuclear fallout shelters and secret underground bases under their control. They would be safe from the foamers, who would die off in a few weeks, allowing Chamber members to return to a world under their authority. That was the scenario, but, like many other plans, it didn’t take variables into account. What if, for example, just one person in the shelters became infected and turned into a foamer, with thousands of others in an enclosed area and no escape? No one thought of the worst case scenario.
Twenty-Eight
“Back in the home, get back in the motor home!” the Tall Man yelled after the shock subsided.
“Oh my God, what are …?”
“Never mind, Margaret, get moving!” David was now aware of the mass of portly midgets who ran like chimpanzees with nails in the soles of their feet.
Margaret ushered Sam to the rear door of the motor home. Allan held the door open while keeping a hand on his Colt.
What the fuck are they? He asked himself.
“Cindy. Cindy? Bring the motor home up here next to us!” The Tall Man pointed.
“Roger!”
“What?” Roger answered before he realized she meant affirmative.
Cindy drove the motor home to a spot next to the Hummer while Mulhaven jumped into the middle of the road and gave covering fire. Supporting himself on one knee, he snapped the AR-15 to his shoulder and took aim.
“Here, take these,” Allan shouted from the rear of the motor home.
The Tall Man, Elliot, and David snatched at the rifles like a drowning man would clutch at a straw. They had their sidearms with them but lacked confidence at such a range.
“Allan, you stay here with your shotgun and protect the vehicles, okay?”
“You got it, Chuck!” Allan gave a confident thumbs-up before taking a combat stance beside the entrance of the motor home. Remington 870 in hand, he would not let anyone get past him.
“Roger, you keep an eye on your flank with your shotgun.”
A single nod was all the confirmation the Tall Man got—or needed—from Roger.
The sound of human voices and gunfire incensed the ravenous swarm beyond. A faint humming sound was heard over the gunfire, from the direction of the mutants.
Buzzing with anticipation of the feast before them, the mutant children moved faster, their actions frenzied.
The volley of shots fired wasn’t ineffective by any means. As each 5.56mm round left the barrel, a mutant fell by the wayside, with David the only one who missed on occasion. But their effort had no substantial effect—at least none they could see. Fear of death wasn’t a deterrent.
“There’s too many, we’ll have to make a run for it,” Mulhaven said as he swapped out magazines.
“No chance. They’ll be on us before we get the engines started!”
“We need more firepower, Chuck, and more than the four of us!”
Elliot was also aware of the numbers imbalance. No matter how many were shot, the rest kept coming. And worse, there seemed to be more, a never-ending wall of mutant children in boxers.
“Roger, take this!” The Tall Man held out his AR-15 then darted for the motor home. “Let’s get the rest of the rifles, Allan!”
Allan grabbed the last two AR-15s while the Tall Man picked up the Weatherby .340 Magnum.
“What can I do?” Cindy moved from the driver’s seat to the rear.
“You can stay in here and keep safe.”
Allan and the Tall Man grabbed extra magazines and headed back to the fray.
“He’s just too damn bossy!” Cindy said … after the door was closed.
Allan took position alongside the others and opened fire. No second thoughts this time, he knew what was right. Besides, it wasn’t like he was shooting at people.
The Tall Man stood and placed well-aimed shots to the heads of the mutated hordes. The .340 Magnum was a formidable weapon, even more so in the hands of the Tall Man.
“Get in the vehicles!” The Tall Man had a revelation of sorts. The mutants were an out-of-control flood and the Tall Man, Elliot, and company were the doomed village in the path of the coming devastation.
“But you just said …” Mulhaven questioned.
“I know what I fuckin’ said, now just get in!”
Cindy paid attention to the conflict. She wasted no time and had the motor home started and ready to go before any of the men had taken a step. Next, the engine of the van roared to life. Margaret had slipped through the front of the home into the van.
“All right, girls!” David yelled then ran for the Hummer.
“Okay, let’s move, move, move!” Mulhaven sounded like he had during his old sergeant days in the army.
They split up. The Tall Man took the motor home. It would take the longest to pick up speed, and if these pygmy-sized fuckers were going to make ground, then it would be on the motor home.
He got to the back door of the home when he heard the unmistakable roar of a jet, turning and burning, followed by the equally unmistakable WHOOSH of missiles as they were launched. There was no time, no time at all. The spearhead of the column of mutants was a hundred yards away. It would be a close call, too close—they might even be the target.
“Down! Get fucking …”
Twenty-Nine
The president felt his blood boil. He glared over at Etheridge, who, for the first time since his teens, could not look another man in the eye. As he clenched his fists tighter to control the trembling, the president debated in his mind whether to initiate an attack. He could grab Etheridge by the collar of his expensive suit, pull him on top of his own body, and then let out a cry for help. The Secret Service detail outside the door—his two most dependable agents—would burst into the room and pop the Chamber leader on the spot. After all, they had no idea who the meeting was with. With five inches in height, fifty pounds in weight, and at least a dozen years of youth to his advantage, the president knew that scenario wouldn’t fly. He wanted to thrash the life out of the bastard with his bare hands, a feat that would be entirely possible given his size.
“I said no interruptions!” The president censured the Secret Service agent when he rushed into the room.
“Sorry, sir, it’s Mr. Transky, he’s demanding to speak with you. It’s urgent!” The agent relayed the message as it came through his ear piece.
The Beginning of the End (Book 2): Toward the Brink II Page 8
