The Beginning of the End (Book 2): Toward the Brink II

by Craig A. McDonough

  The president looked back at Etheridge, uncertainty etched on the man’s face, then at the agent. “All right, let’s go, but this man is not to leave this room. Understood?”

  The president left the Situation Room and headed for the elevator. There wasn’t anything of value in the room for Etheridge to see, and he wouldn’t be able to access the computers.

  Hell, I don’t have the clearance for half of that stuff, the president reminded himself.

  “He’s in his office, Mr. President,” said the agent who traveled with the president. The other remained on guard outside the Situation Room as instructed.

  “What is it, Tom?” the president asked as he entered the office of his chief of staff.

  “Take a seat, sir.”

  The president had who he believed was the main source of this crisis isolated in the Situation Room, and he didn’t want to leave the snake there too long. For his adviser and friend of many years to ask him to take a seat meant it must be important. Damn important.

  “Sir, we have a lot of reports right now that sum up the state of the nation and the world.”

  “The world?” the president asked, his eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, sir. First, here are some of the latest black and white satellite images of the napalm bombardment of Idaho and surrounding areas.”

  The first image Tom handed the president was a shot of the northwestern United States with superimposed lines approximating the states’ borders. Long, disjointed strips of white over the mainly dark image stretched from the Idaho, Utah, and Nevada borders into Montana, and from Wyoming up to Canada, then over to the Pacific coastal areas of Washington, Oregon, and Northern California. The white signified the fire-wall of Stodge’s “burn ’em out” plan.

  “My God, Tom, this is an inferno. The whole Northwest is, is ringed by fire.” He added, “A ring of fucking death.”

  He looked at other images as Tom handed them to him one at a time, each image magnified more than the last.

  “How in the name of all that’s sane is this preferable to Hadlee’s plan?”

  “Well, sir, as Stodge himself explained, there’ll be no radioactive fallout to deal with.”

  “Yes, yes, I remember. So we can rebuild, but there won’t be anybody alive after this firestorm to rebuild for, dammit!”

  Tom folded his hands on his desk and hung his head. He always wore a three-piece suit and either a red or blue tie (full Windsor knot) over a white shirt, but now he had discarded the coat and tie. His sleeves were loosely rolled up to his elbow. The redness under his eyes indicated a lack of sleep. He didn’t look much like a member of the president’s inner circle at all.

  “No, Mr. President.” He looked up. “There won’t be anyone left to rebuild for, but not because of fire or nuclear weapons. This … this … disease—and only this disease—is responsible.”

  “I’m gonna’ kill that son of a fucking bitch!”

  “Sir?”

  The president told his chief of staff that Milton Etheridge was in the Situation Room and that it was he and his confederates, including Richard Holmes, who, in Etheridge’s own words, had engineered all this.

  “He admitted to it?” Tom sat upright with some surprise.

  “They have an emergency evacuation plan for all the wealthy elite. As a matter of fact, Holmes is overseeing it all as we speak.”

  Tom took the opportunity to open another folder on his desk.

  “Sir, we’ve opened direct communications with the ambassadors and consul generals of multiple countries and have kept them informed as deemed necessary. We’ve also kept the UN apprised of the situation. All those involved have done their best to monitor the situation in their own countries while at the same time trying to prevent panic.”

  Tom was, and had always been, good at presenting the worst possible news by easing into it. He wasn’t the sledgehammer type. The president, however, knew the Tom Transky playbook as well as its creator.

  “Get to the point, Tom. We don’t have the luxury of time.”

  “Maybe we do and maybe we don’t.” Tom sighed as he drew a sheaf of paper in front of him.

  “Western Europe, the United Kingdom, South Africa, the Middle East, and Russia and its neighbors have all reported thousands of cases of infected and, as the report says, dying. They’re exhibiting the same symptoms as the inhabitants of Idaho were only a few days ago, Mr. President.”

  A few days ago, a few days … damn! And now it’s establishing itself around the globe. We’re doomed. The president rubbed a hand across his mouth.

  “What do we do, Tom?”

  “Sir, the only places we have no reports of a breakout are the Southeast Asian countries, Australia, New Zealand, and the Pacific islands. Either potatoes and their byproducts aren’t a major food product, or there were regulations in place that prevented certain imports from the US.”

  “Then why is Western Europe suffering? France, Germany, Denmark … They have some of the most stringent regulations on food additives and importation in the world. Why are they in the same boat?”

  Tom thought about it for a moment. He wasn’t sure himself, but did his best. “They’re not isolated, sir. You can drive from Paris to Moscow to Berlin and back again, that would do it. We’ve learned it’s taken several years for this pathogen to take hold in the population, and though warning signals were there, we weren’t informed. These outbreaks were never reported or taken seriously, which in itself gives credence to the idea it was a deliberate strategy. So if the same has happened in Russia, then it’s not inconceivable for it to have spread to the west. We also have many visitors from the United Kingdom who traveled to Europe, then brought it back. It’s less than an hour’s ferry ride, isn’t it?” It was actually closer to two hours, but Tom had made his point.

  “As to what we do? Well, sir, I don’t think we have the time to develop a counteragent, nor can we effectively round up the infected and quarantine them as has been suggested. The measures currently in place will do little except set the entire Northwest ablaze. Sir,” he said, voice softer, like that of a friend and not a staff member, “We have to evacuate, but not with Holmes and his people, and let nature take its course.”

  “And what will that be, Tom?”

  The intercom on the desk buzzed before he could reply to the president. “Yes?” Tom answered.

  “Sir, Director Pikney is on line three,” his secretary announced.

  “Thank you.” Tom picked up the phone and answered in the same breath, “Mr. Pikney, sir, what can I do for you? I’m in a meeting with the president.”

  “Put me on speaker. He’ll want to hear this too.”

  Tom wasted no time and did so.

  “Go ahead, Nigel, this is the president.”

  “Sirs, we just received a report—and this will be confirmed by the various agencies—of massive unrest in the cities of Los Angeles, Dallas, Salt Lake City, and Las Vegas. Many smaller cities have also reported disturbances, mostly in the West, but there are some reports coming in from Chicago, as yet unconfirmed.”

  Tom Transky’s worried eyes met the president’s. Had they left it too late?

  If everyone in the federal government hadn’t already felt squeezed—who wouldn’t when faced with the prospect of the world heading toward the brink of destruction—they definitely felt the squeeze now. Sweat formed on the brows of Transky and the president and sticky goo formed in the recesses of their armpits. The president was alarmed to learn from Pikney that the uprisings weren’t the sole responsibility of the foamers.

  “No, sir. Civilians, police, National Guard, and military units are reportedly fighting pitched battles against each other as well as these foamer creatures.”

  “Against each other? I don’t understand that at all. Pikney, what do you know of this?” The president’s patience was wearing thin.

  “Sir, all of the towns and states mentioned have functioning television services, and … “He paused while the president groan
ed. “Exactly, sir, exactly. They have live units on the ground filming and beaming it back to every relay station in America and across the world, sir.”

  Tom had heard enough. The director of the FBI had told him what he needed to know. It was over. There was but one chance at getting out, but he had to act fast.

  Thirty

  The first two missiles erupted as one not a hundred yards from them. Mulhaven ate the ground in front of him and, like the Tall Man, opened his mouth wide and roared, easing the pressure on his eardrums from the blast. Elliot and Roger, neither of whom had made it to the safety of a vehicle, weren’t acquainted with this method and suffered what was comparable to an open-handed smack to the ear from Godzilla.

  The Tall Man hit the asphalt road behind the motor home and rolled to one side. The home shook and lifted up from the force of the explosions, as did the Hummer and the van. The windows on the motor home were saved, but the rear windows of the other two vehicles didn’t fare so well.

  “Quick, move up!” he yelled and pointed to the front of the Hummer.

  He had just made it when the second volley hit. The insides of Elliot’s and Roger’s heads were numb, as though they’d woken after a week-long sleep. A high-pitched whine emitted from somewhere deep in the back of the skull, not unlike the feedback of a 1970s Ted Nugent rock show.

  “All right, the flyboys got ’em!” Mulhaven exclaimed when he looked up.

  Behind them on the highway, a column of thick black smoke and dust rose to the heavens. Among the dirt and soot were fragments of mutants. A hand here, a leg there, not to mention a head or two. Elliot stood and shook his head from side to side then tapped himself on the back of the head to clear his ears while particles of earth fell all around.

  “I’m glad we weren’t any closer!” he said.

  “They’re coming in for another run.” The Tall Man pointed toward the jets. “We need some distance!”

  In the sky, the two F-16s rounded out and were now approaching for a straight-down-the-barrel run. What mutants remained were scattered five hundred yards away. The next round of missiles should put an end to that problem. Primitive-acting mutants might not have any cognizance of lead projectiles from an AR-15, but explosions from air-to-ground missiles grabbed their attention.

  Thirty-One

  Tom looked up at the president, his brow heavily furrowed. He nodded two, maybe three times, then picked up his cell phone from his desk and tapped the front of it with more than a touch of desperation. “It’s a go. I want to leave within the hour, make the necessary calls.” He put his cell down on the desk.

  “What was all that about, Tom? What’s a go, and who’s leaving … and where?”

  The moment after he’d seen the images of the foamers in Twin Falls, he told the president, he had made plans for himself and the president to get away should it become necessary—and it was. The desolation of the city, the faces of the foamers, and the fact that not a single living person—not one—had been captured in any of the images was all the motivation he needed.

  “I believe the time has come, sir.”

  “What on earth are …? Who would govern? Who would …?” the confused president said, protesting.

  “Sir, you’ve seen what I have, and you just heard the director of FBI tell you that the cities—American cities—have become a war zone. Americans are killing each other over scraps of food or an extra box of ammunition. They’ll be so busy killing each other they won’t see these zombie creatures come, but when they do, it will already be too late. Come with me, Mr. President … for your own sake, the sake of your family. It’s our only hope.”

  The president stared at Tom, his eyes bugged out. He took several deep breaths as he tried to come to terms with the latest developments. He knew Tom was right, but he still felt like the captain of a sinking ship who took the last available lifeboat and abandoned the passengers.

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  Thirty-Two

  The three vehicles, with the black Hummer in the lead, as always, left the napalm firestorm and its crispy critters behind them. There was no turning back—it was Canada or bust. In the van, Elliot explained to Mulhaven what his mother had witnessed in hospitals and clinics around Idaho. He knew he’d have to explain to the others again when they stopped. He was sure of that. Those mutants had the Tall Man on edge, and that unnerved everyone.

  About five miles from the border, they raced through what was left of the town of Eureka then pressed on. They had planned to hold up for recon, but with the mutant attack and the flyboys lighting up the whole area, it was considered best to plow through. They passed the Indian Springs Ranch Golf Course, and despite what they’d endured, still looked to see if anyone was enjoying a round. The I–93 was an almost dead straight run from there. Up front, Roger and David could see the Border Patrol station ahead.

  “What can you see?”

  Roger raised the binoculars to his face.

  “Looks pretty dead. Err, well, you know what I mean.”

  With US Air Force jets overhead, mutants rampaging across the ground, and foamers causing havoc at night, the border crossing was as barren as the surface of the moon. The sound of a horn could be heard from behind, and David looked in the rearview mirror, he saw the Tall Man waving his arm from the window of the motor home, urging them forward.

  As soon as they crossed the border into Canada, it just seemed to smell different. The trees and the terrain were the same here, but there seemed to be a freshness in the air. Or was it self–conditioning, in that they believed it would be better across the border? Had they lulled themselves into a false sense of security?

  From the motor home, the Tall Man honked on the horn again and waved for David to hold up at the Roosville crossing, just ahead. There were some abandoned cars at the border station to use for gas, and it afforded a much-needed chance to catch their breath and eat before moving on. The Tall Man had emphasized the importance of eating something at every break, whether they felt hungry or not.

  “Roger, Allan, you two see if you can get some gas out of those cars. The ladies are pulling themselves together before they make a snack for us, and the rest of us can stand guard in case there are more mutants around, okay?” the Tall Man ordered as soon as he exited the motor home. The Tall Man wasn’t afraid of most things he’d faced in his life. Sure, guns, tanks, and bombs were frightening in their own right, but this disease, the foamers, and now mutants? He rubbed a hand across his brow. He looked at his fingers and noted how they trembled. No, he wasn’t afraid … at least, he kept telling himself that.

  “It’s only about twenty miles to the next town and we have enough gas, but it doesn’t hurt to check.” The real reason for the stop, as everyone knew, was to take a breather and take the edge off—if that was at all possible.

  Thirty-Three

  “Marine One is standing by to take us to Baltimore–Washington International, and from there …”

  “Wait, wait, I can’t do this without my family, Tom, I just can’t!”

  “Sir, your wife and two children are being picked up as we speak and will be flown to BWI along with my family. There will be the pilots from Marine One and four Secret Service agents with us. I selected the four based on marital status.”

  “Maybe you should have been the director of the CIA instead of chief of staff.”

  “We have to leave right away, sir.”

  “I understand, Tom, but permit me one last action as president, if you will.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Tom watched the president as he rose. He didn’t question his business—not this time.

  * * *

  The president, accompanied by a sole Secret Service agent, went straight to the Situation Room. If the United States was to become an ungovernable wasteland of foamers and gun-toting crazies, he had one task left before leaving the White House.

  Milton Etheridge.

  “What the fuck is going on? Where’s Etheridge?” t
he president asked, challenging the agent who had been left to guard the Chamber leader.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The agent pulled a gun as the president got to the middle of the room. “You see, Mr. Etheridge explained the situation, and … well, I have a ten-month-old daughter, and …”

  “He promised to take you and your family to one of their sanctuaries, correct?”

  The agent raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to one side in a gesture of acknowledgment.

  “You won’t see any sanctuary or your ten-month-old again, agent.” Tom Transky had followed the president to the Situation Room and entered with another Secret Service agent, who now trained his gun on the traitor.

  “Don’t be stupid. I’ll shoot the president!”

  “I’m not the president anymore, son.”

  The traitorous agent aimed his gun at his commander–in–chief, but the confidence he displayed a moment ago had vanished. The thought of never seeing his baby girl again played on his mind.

  “What … what are you talking about?” He lowered his gun about one foot. That was all it took.

  The president picked himself up from the floor, where he had dove the instant the shot rang out. He gave a cursory glance at the agent who had held a gun on him then held a hand out to Tom and the agent with him. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said with all the composure expected of an elder statesman. “Shall we get out of here?”

  * * *

  Three-quarters of an hour later, the president, Tom Transky, two chopper pilots, and four Secret Service agents exited Marine One at BWI. Like all airports across the North American continent, big or small, all flights had been canceled, and the airport was closed. Unless it was a government, military, or medical emergency, nothing—not even a hang glider from the top of the control tower—took off. On the runway was a Bombardier Global Express 5000, which normally carried nineteen passengers but could squeeze in thirty if necessary. Four large black SUVs sat fifty yards away. The drivers stood huddled in a group by the vehicles while another group of four armed with 9mm Uzis stood in a semicircle at the bottom of the plane’s staircase.