The man winks, turns his head, and resumes his hurried pace. He steps quickly up onto the opposite curb and heads to the left. His movements are fluid. Efficient. Purposeful. Like a dancer. Or a robot. I follow, keeping my distance. The man terrifies me, but I cannot lose him. He’s up to something. Something important. I can feel it. It’s my job to watch. The man comes to the next corner and ducks to the right. I run to keep up.
From up ahead comes a soft cry and a muttering of voices. A small crowd has formed in front of a restaurant. I watch as the tall man nears the crowd, steps around a trashcan and into the street. He disappears, vanishing like a soap bubble in the noonday heat. I begin to run. Whatever it is I am supposed to see, this is it.
I push through the ring of onlookers. On the sidewalk at my feet lies a young woman, her face marked with a bright red rash that stretches from cheek to cheek and across her nose. Her right leg is twisted at an awkward angle beneath her. Beside her head are pieces of a half-eaten cheeseburger. The top bun lies on its back like a stranded turtle, two pickle eyes staring up at the hot, searing sun. Next to the cheeseburger lies a spilled soft drink, the ice cubes melting quickly on the concrete. I take a breath to calm myself. The onlookers are strangely silent. The woman’s breath is shallow. Her full, flushed face wears a calm smile. It appears as though she has simply decided to lie down for a short nap and dream of beautiful things.
The thin man reappears out of nowhere on the far side of the crowd. He stares at me with dark, curious eyes. I pull back, thinking I can take cover behind one of the others. But there is no hiding from this man. “She is learning once again of the ephemeral nature of human life,” says the man evenly. His voice is deep and clear, though his mouth does not move as he speaks. It resonates within my mind. The man’s face wrinkles oddly for a moment and I realize that he is trying to smile, as if to comfort me. “She is only the first,” he says in my mind.
I stare down at the woman. Her shoulder-length brown hair fans out on the sidewalk beneath her like an earthy halo. Her thin cotton dress, short and summery with yellow flowers, provides little protection from the heat of the concrete. A fat, balding man in a gray suit kneels beside her body and takes her hand. A teenage girl in the restaurant's green uniform bends to gather the pieces of cheeseburger in a grease-stained paper napkin. She tosses them in the trashcan with a shudder of revulsion.
I am startled to find that I can see inside the sick woman’s body, and that she is filled with vibrating motes of light, sparkling and twinkling like tiny green and gold stars in the universe of her being. “The organism will soon shut down her heart,” says the thin man in my mind. “There will be no pain.”
I look up. The thin man is now standing next to the woman’s head. It doesn’t appear that anyone else can see him. The man points down at the woman with a long, pale finger. “The others here will blame her death on the food, not understanding that the organism responsible rose to life many days ago. This will slow your human efforts to understand what is happening.”
I study the other onlookers. There are sparkling motes in many of them, the fat man and the restaurant girl included. “Why...?” I ask.
“It’s part of a plan,” explains the thin man.
I open my mouth to ask another question, but stop when the woman on the sidewalk speaks. Her voice is soft and calm. “My love,” she says, “my love... my love...” She pauses for a long moment, then speaks one last word: “Alas.” I scan her again, noting the cessation of her body’s electrical systems. Her mind and heart slow to a full stop. Her tender smile remains.
I glance up at the thin man, who returns my gaze with another brief nod. “It has begun,” he says. He turns, steps back through the ring of onlookers, and vanishes.
Gabrielle Legrand read the words in her journal, words written in her own hand, words that must have been written sometime during the night. They were words she had no memory of writing, words connected to a dream that she hadn't remembered until she'd read them. She tore the pages from her notebook, wadded them into a ball, and tossed them into the wastebasket next to her desk. She had no time for such nonsense. Not anymore. And she had to get to class.
1.2
The General squinted up at the television screen as the image of Linda Travis pushed a stray lock of hair from her face and stepped to a podium decorated with the Presidential Seal. She was alone in her room, and everybody knew it, but the podium would give the impression of a press conference, and add a grace note of calm normality to the event. The General smirked as he sipped his beer. Image was everything. It always would be. He checked his watch. He still had an hour before his flight. Plenty of time to enjoy this.
Dressed in blue jeans and a loose-fitting University of Maine sweatshirt, her clothes no doubt chosen to hearken back to her first campaign, the President smiled dolefully at the camera and began. “Good morning, all. Thank you for joining me. I am here today to announce my intention to seek re-election." Travis paused for a moment, giving the news a moment to sink in. The General glanced around the airport bar. There were only three other people in the room, including the bartender, but all were watching closely. This announcement had been a long time coming.
The President continued, glancing down at her notes. "This will likely come as a surprise to most of you," she said, "given the events of the past year. And surely the timing could be better." Linda stared directly into the camera. "The last thing a grieving nation needs is more self-serving blather from a politician." She stopped and took a sip from the water glass on her podium. The General lifted his mug and drained it, then knocked on the bar to get the tender's attention and motioned for a refill. The airport’s air conditioning was struggling to keep up and his throat was dry.
The door behind the President clicked open and Linda turned to see the surprised face of a nurse through the thick, protective faceplate of her biocontainment suit. “Sorry,” hissed the young woman, glancing at the camera in mortified horror before pulling the door quickly shut. Linda smiled grimly at the departing nurse, then turned back to her audience. The rash that stretched over the bridge of her nose from cheek to cheek glared brightly red under the overhead fluorescents.
Linda raised a hand to touch her reddened cheek, then stopped herself. She grabbed both sides of the podium and continued. “But we do not always get to choose our circumstances," she said firmly, "and the demands of this time outweigh mere political considerations. As hard as things have become, as mistaken as I have proven to be, as compromised as I now am, there is no one else as qualified and experienced as myself to lead this great nation at this time. Love me or hate me, you surely all know who I am. And you know that what I say is true."
The General raised his mug in admiration. This was masterfully done, every detail in place, and it drew its power from Linda Travis’ proven ability to move people. All she had to do was tell people what to think, and most of them would just go ahead and think it. The General noted that the bartender and the other customers were all nodding their heads in agreement with the President’s words. He chuckled softly. They had likely complained bitterly about Linda Travis in the past twenty-four hours, if the polls were to be believed. And yet they nodded. Such was her reputation for truth telling. Such was their longing for truth. And such was America's seeming inability to remember anything for more than a day or two. It was only four years ago that Linda Travis had promised to serve only one term. Would they not remember even that?
"Whether I am elected to serve another term or not, I have not yet finished this one, and I still serve the vows I took on the day of my inauguration. To that end, I have called for a new summit of political, corporate, and military leaders to discuss our next steps. We will meet tomorrow, and will continue to meet until our course is clear. Certainly this most recent aggression cannot be allowed to stand. And certainly we must bring some strong measure of relief to the American people. I will accept nothing less."
The President glanced back at the door behin
d her, then attended again to the camera. Her pale skin tones heightened the effect of her rash, making it look more like war paint than the "alien flu” the papers reported. And the General detected an angry glint in her eyes and a shaking of her jaw that matched that war paint. It was an interesting decision, to show such anger. He wondered how that would play on the evening news.
"We are down," the President said, her voice soft and full. "But we are not out. I am down. But I am not out. We have what we need to get through this. You have it. I have it. Your neighbors and friends and family have it. I saw that every time I walked amongst you. I see it still, even trapped in these rooms. We have what it takes. And we will make it through this." Linda Travis stopped and took a long, deep breath. She nodded firmly, allowing a brief smile of hope to flash across her countenance. "Have courage," she said. With that she pressed a button on her podium. The screen went blank for just a moment, then switched back to the studio, where commentators would no doubt comment. The bartender muted the television.
The General drained his mug and wiped his lips with a paper napkin. As far as the public would be concerned, President Linda Travis had just admitted mistakes, threatened retaliation, and was now seeking counsel from the very people she'd spent the last two years excluding. Of course she was, given what had happened at Sebago Lake. The timing was perfect.
The General stood and pulled on his windbreaker, examining himself in the mirror behind the bar. Polo shirt. Twill slacks. He was a General no longer. Just some shrunken old guy rich enough to afford plane fare. He picked up his briefcase and headed toward the door. Time to find a good novel for the flight. Then maybe he'd head to the gate. He loved to be first in line, even with so few fellow flyers. And there were sure to be protestors at the security checkpoint.
The General patted his shirt pocket to make sure his ticket was there. It was. He'd bought a return ticket, to avoid questions, but he did not plan to use it. Soon enough, flights such as his would all be cancelled, but the General had no intention of ever coming back in any event.
1.3
A light breeze cooled the sweat on the back of Claude's neck and he stood to maximize the effect. It was not even noon, but already the sun was hot on his head, and the morning’s work had proven more difficult than he’d anticipated. He rolled his shoulders while stretching his neck from side to side, freeing stiff muscles. Getting old was not so bad, he thought, but getting old alone was a sonovabitch. There was too much work.
He gazed off toward the barn. Old Fritz raised his head to return the gaze. “Ya lazy old hound!” called Claude, shaking his fist in mock fury. Fritz thumped his tail on the ground, then lowered his head to the grass and continued his nap. Claude shook his head. He should have been a dog: they don’t work at all. He pulled an old, gray handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his face, then stuffed it back in his overalls and knelt down to grab the wire cutters. He had other chores to do, and this fence was not going to mend itself.
“Daddy?”
Claude whirled as he stood, his heart pounding. Cole opened his eyes. There was his youngest, Grace, looking down at him, hands on her hips and brow wrinkled with concern. “You went away again, didn’t you?” she said. It wasn’t really a question.
Cole leaned forward in the recliner and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, drawing a deep, whistling breath as he did so. “What time is it?” he asked, his voice raspy. He shook his head to clear it.
Grace pulled her phone from her jeans pocket and glanced at the screen. “She’s on in about five minutes.” She turned to eye the television screen; it was on but muted. The end credits from some daytime drama scrolled merrily along. She turned back to her father. “You want some water?”
Cole nodded. Grace, tall and confident at eight years old, twirled to face the Family Suite's tiny kitchen, tipping her head back so that her long, chestnut hair would swirl around her as she spun. It was something she’d seen in a music video. “You want chips?” she asked as she walked away.
Cole blinked in surprise. “We have chips?” he said, a note of incredulity in his voice.
Grace glanced back over her shoulder with a grin. “Ness made ‘em,” she said. She reached down to scratch Dennis’s head as he slept on the overstuffed sofa, then headed down the hallway. Dennis, the family’s old Whippet, his muzzle now flecked with white hairs, wagged his tail but did not open his eyes.
Cole inhaled sharply. A moment ago he’d been an old man, working on a fence on a warm summer day. Now he was young and healthy again, and sitting in a leather recliner in the relatively cool, darkened family room of the Presidential Home in Augusta, Maine. These “hops” were happening more and more frequently, and they felt so vividly real, and the transitions were so abrupt, that they left him feeling like he was about to trip and fall. Sometimes it was difficult to know which “real” was the most real.
Grace came back into the room with a glass of water and a large stainless-steel bowl half-filled with homemade tortilla chips. Cole watched as she placed the water on his side table and crawled onto the recliner beside him. She placed the bowl on her lap. Cole took a chip and popped it into his mouth. Glorious. Ness, bless her heart, must have scored some more corn meal on the last shipment, and rather than settle for the usual corn bread, had produced these crispy, salty reminders of how life used to be. There was even a cup of the salsa she’d canned last fall, just chopped tomatoes and onions from the garden, mostly, nothing particularly spicy because of the pepper blight, but still wonderful. He dipped a second chip and ate it. “Where’s Iain and Em?” he asked around the food in his mouth. He grabbed another chip.
“Watching in their rooms," said Grace.
“Should we...?” said Cole, motioning toward the chips.
Grace shook her head. “Ness made ‘em both bowls of their own.” She glanced up at her father with soft eyes of concern. “Where’d you go?”
Cole hugged his daughter gently. “The old man again,” he said. “I was fixing a fence. And his old Doberman was there.”
“Fritz,” said Grace. She stuffed a chip into her mouth and wiped her hand on her jeans.
“Yeah. That was it.” The TV screen dissolved to the presidential seal and Cole reached over to grab the remote and bring up the sound. Grace settled into her father’s arms and they waited. “I feel afraid,” murmured Cole. Grace took his hand and held it in her own. Cole ran his fingers through his thick, dark brown hair and exhaled deeply.
The video feed cut in. There was Linda. God, she looked so pale. And her eyes: raw, and moist with pain, gazed out over those red splotches on her cheeks like innocent prisoners peering through jail cell windows. Cole still couldn’t believe they’d taken her. It’d been almost a week, but the tear in his heart was as fresh and jagged as if she’d only just now been ripped from their lives, as if those bastards had severed the connection between his heart and hers with a dull, rusted axe. Grace reached up and put a hand on his cheek and only then did he realize that he’d been grinding his teeth. He was furious. He blinked and exhaled heavily and tried to smile and hugged Grace to him as Linda Travis began to speak.
“Good morning, all. Thank you for joining me,” she said. Her voice sounded small and frail through the television’s speakers, but Dennis looked up at the sound of it. “I am here today to announce my intention to seek re-election.” Cole took another deep breath. She’d done it. Who knew where that would lead? He sure as hell didn’t.
He already knew what she would say, of course. Cole had "chatted" with her just an hour earlier. Five minutes, as usual, as if being online was bad for her health. Damnable doctors. Linda and Cole had been speaking about the possibility of a second term for months. But it was not until two weeks ago, when somebody poisoned Sebago Lake with a weaponized fungal toxin that killed over one hundred thousand Americans in and around the Federal Shelter outside of Portland, Maine, that Linda would allow herself to truly consider the possibility. And it was not until the military a
nd the CDC arrived in force at the Presidential Home at dawn on Emily’s eleventh birthday, forced Linda into a level-four biocontainment capsule, and whisked her away in an ambulance, that she could see that she had to keep fighting. Sebago Lake had been too close, a message and a threat, and her present incarceration, an obvious attempt to try to control her directly. Linda Travis would not stand for that. Not the Linda Travis that Cole knew and loved.
“But we do not always get to choose our circumstances,” said Linda from the screen. Cole nodded his head in agreement. No shit. His love, his best friend, was now locked away in a state-of-the-art biocontainment facility built, supposedly for her comfort and ease, over and around her old summer cottage on Squirrel Island. Two hours away by car and boat, but it might as well be Mars. And according to her doctors, or at least that halfwit specialist Bill Bellows who showed up on the news all the time, she was suffering from “an unknown infectious agent” contracted, they said, from her direct contact with “non-terrestrial biological entities.” Meaning Spud, at the very least. Now her health was failing - that red rash on her face had only manifested in the last two days - and her freedom was severely limited. Walled in, surrounded by CDC personnel on all sides, her access to the world filtered through government and military channels, she was now forced to play by “their” rules, although which “they” was responsible for all of this Cole did not know. This damned summit was part of that.
He couldn’t even see her. He’d been allowed one short phone call just after she’d been taken away. She hadn’t seemed herself at all in that call; it was like she’d been drugged. Since then, nothing but an occasional chat online. No one was allowed on Squirrel Island but military and CDC personnel. And direct human contact, even with medical people, was sharply limited, according to Linda.
The expression on that poor nurse’s face when she stumbled into the room looked like more than just embarrassment to Cole. She seemed terrified. So maybe the press was correct in calling Linda’s condition the “alien flu.” But how could Linda have been infected by aliens when she hadn’t seen any in years? How could the doctors and military have known about it before she had any symptoms? Had those little bastards come and taken her in the night, as they used to do when she was young? Had the military been involved? And if Linda was infected, then weren’t the rest of them? Why hadn’t Cole and the kids and her entire staff been rounded up and quarantined as well? It didn’t add up.
Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2) Page 2
