Burn District 1

by Jenkins, Suzanne

  “You can use our landline,” he said. “It’s working.” But Eastman didn’t know the numbers by heart and was unable to access his contacts from the phone.

  “Get me a car, please. I need to get to Washington tonight.” He’d go door to door if he could remember where everyone lived.

  “This is turning into a real nightmare,” Johnson said, but immediately realized his error when he saw the look on Eastman’s face. “No reflection on the fine job you’re doing! No sir, that is not what I meant.” Icy fear gripped his body.

  “Run to your bunker and hide with Clarke,” Eastman said. “I’ve got orders to give.”

  “Go to the White House, John. I’ll give the orders for you to settle in there. Do everything you can to help General Eastman,” Johnson directed the Secret Service agent. “He’s my second in command.” The agent averted his eyes, wondering what was going on. Then he thought of his wife and children, vulnerable and alone. He might be joining his comrades who were quietly leaving their posts to return home, pack up the family minivan and run from Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 23

  New Beginning

  “The lights are on but nobody’s home,” Victor Garrison lamented. A police officer had given him computer access at the temporary police post in Yuma after he begged the man, when flashing government identification didn’t impress him. Able to log on to his email accounts and read the available news while the others, including a distraught Katherine, were in the loaned van, waiting for him.

  Now, as he got back into the van, near tears, everyone’s eyes were on him wanting the story.

  “But you were able to log on?” Alex asked.

  “Internet access is sporadic. I got my email, and let me tell you, we are definitely better off away from Washington. This mess might have started in New Jersey, but the hub is D.C. Albert Johnson is acting president but he’s in an underground bunker somewhere.”

  “The speaker of the house? No friggin way,” Ed yelled.

  “Ugh, I’m glad we’re not still there,” Miranda said. “Did they say anything about Winston Clarke?”

  “I didn’t see his name mentioned. But General Eastman is making a lot of noise. And so are the Russians. I don’t want to upset you, but the country is a sitting duck for lack of a better cliché, for every power who hates the U.S.”

  “Probably wide open for a terrorist attack,” Alex said.

  “Let’s try to find a place to stay,” Ed said, pulling out of the parking lot. “We need to be proactive.”

  They’d encountered roadblock after roadblock, not sure why they were given the go ahead to move along. “We must not look like trouble makers,” Alex offered.

  At the next stop, Ed asked for help. “Where are newcomers staying?”

  “Lots of folk are moving into vacant office buildings. There are hundreds around town still standing. We don’t know how long the sewage plant is going to keep functioning, so don’t get too comfortable. But if you’re looking for a place to hide…”

  “Okay, well thanks anyway,” Ed said.

  “Or you can always squat in someone’s abandoned home. Some houses survived with only superficial damage. That might work for you until the next burn.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Or, you can take up residence in the junk yard down on Constable Avenue. They have a septic system and a well.”

  “Oh good lord,” Katherine whined. “Please, please let’s go back to the camp!” Miranda patted her mother’s arm.

  “Just wait a second mother,” she whispered. “So what’s the consensus?”

  “I say the junkyard,” Danny replied. “I don’t want to get settled in an office building and have the toilets overflow.”

  “Or get comfortable in someone else’s house and then have a bomb drop on it,” Alex added.

  “Take a look at the junkyard,” Victor said. “It’s impossible to picture.”

  Katherine moaned. “Leave it to you to pick the worst possible scenario,” she cried.

  Ed thanked the man and followed his pointed finger to Constable Avenue, the site of the Crash Test Junkyard.

  “Oh God, what an awful name,” Miranda said. It was just a few blocks away. They could smell the wood burning, from bonfires for a change instead of bombs, the smell reminiscent of autumn back east. A man in a dirty uniform of unknown origin stopped them at the entrance.

  “What kin I do fer ya?” he asked, the smell of tobacco was overpowering as he leaned in the window, looking over the occupants.

  “We were told by the guard down the road this might be a place for us to live,” Ed replied pulling away from the man as he stuck his head in further.

  “That depends on what you’ve got in mind,” Tobacco said. “We don’t want no transients here. This is a stable, family oriented establishment.” Katherine looked at the back of Victor’s head with venom, kicking the back of his seat so hard he turned around, confused.

  Miranda elbowed her. “Stop it, mother!”

  Ed looked around the car. “What’d you say? Should we give it a try, or move on?” Everyone shrugged their shoulders. “I guess we’ll give it a try.” Tobacco moved away from the car and waved it inside the yard, slamming the gate shut behind them.

  “This doesn’t look so bad,” Victor said, looking out of the corner of his eye at his wife in the seat behind him.

  It was not your average junkyard. Fifteen-foot high stacks of flattened cars acted as a sort of barrier parallel to the road frontage, lending a feeling of safety within. Tobacco walked in front of the van, leading it to an area that looked more like a down at the heels campground than a junkyard. Ancient motor homes were lined up with busses and vans, but with enough room for a barbeque grill and a picnic table between each one.

  Evidence of occupancy was everywhere; clothes strung on clotheslines, and smoke emanating from grills, breakfast in progress. Little children kicked a ball back and forth and an old man slept in a beat up outdoor chair.

  “This is just awful,” Katherine remarked hopeless, then more aggressively. “I don’t want to live here, got it?”

  “Just hang on for a second. If you really hate it, I’ll take you back to Lexie,” Victor said kindly.

  Tobacco stopped in front of a trailer that had once been white and turquoise back in the fifties, but now faded, with rust added. He approached the car again. “This ‘ill set you back about a thousand a month,” he said. “Includes all utilities as long as they last. We prefer ammunition, but will take cash.” Ed turned to look at the others.

  “Do you want to take it for a month?” Turning back to Tobacco, “How many will it sleep?”

  “Six comfortable, eight with the couch and sofa bed.”

  “Let’s take it,” Miranda said. To Katherine, “It’s just for a month. Like Daddy said, you can go back to the camp or we can see if Lexie wants to come here for a visit.” Katherine was too angry to respond, fighting tears.

  Ed pulled next to the trailer and the others got out of the van, stretching. “Is there a place to get groceries?” he asked Tobacco.

  “Looting, like everyone else. I can tell you the most recent burned areas and you can try those places. The others are likely cleaned out by now. I heard a church started a food pantry but they loot for it, too, and then want you to volunteer if you take anything. Food gathering’s competitive and gettin’ worse. Hear tell the Mexicans gonna step in an help us out.

  “If you’re goin’ out, better do it soon. Gates are locked at sunset.” Ed thanked him and took the key after handing over the money.

  “Well what the hell do we do now?” Alex asked as they crowded into the narrow space. There didn’t appear to be anything necessary to live, not a spoon or fork, not even a roll of toilet paper. Tobacco yelled from outside the door.

  “You’ll have to empty the pooper about every other day with this many people on board.” Ed turned to him with palms up, muddled.

  “And just how is that accomplished?” But Tobacco just n
odded.

  “When you get to that place, I’ll walk you through the steps. It’s not such a big deal, promise,” he said, chuckling.

  “Now that makes me nervous,” Alex said.

  “We’ll draw straws when the time comes,” Ed said. “Yet another thing I always took for granted!”

  “We need to get moving, steal some sheets. Mother, don’t even look at the mattresses,” Miranda said.

  The sobbing heard outside, Tobacco giggled. Newcomers had it rough at first, but they’d get used to it in no time at all.

  ***

  The camp dwellers embraced their new guests. Lexie would stay with Laura’s family and Grace would sleep on the futon in Carol and Randy’s camper. Over a communal breakfast, the family discovered Grace was a retired registered nurse.

  “I was going to study nursing in college,” Elise said, buttering toast. “I guess that will never happen.”

  “Don’t say that,” Mike told her. “This might be a temporary situation.”

  “And if it’s not, I’ll teach you how to be a nurse,” Grace said. “You won’t need a license anytime soon.”

  Laura stopped pouring coffee. “You would do that for her?”

  “Of course! It will give me something to look forward to,” Grace said happily.

  “I’d love to do it, too,” Lexie said. “Would you mind, Elise?”

  “No, it would be great. We can study together.”

  “I would love to get in on this. Am I too old?” Carol asked

  “Absolutely not,” Grace said. “I would love for you to join us.” Carol smiled; finally, something for her to do, a possible friendship with Grace, too.

  “Grannie, I’m so excited!” Elise shouted, Carin joining in, hugging Carol.

  “I might as well do it,” Carin added happily.

  “Clinical will be right here, taking care of anyone who gets sick,” Grace said.

  “We could ask Marybeth Crouse if you can help out at the underground clinic,” Mike said. “She was the nurse who saw Chris.”

  “Can we talk to her after breakfast?” Elise asked. Mike nodded his head, but Laura thought it was premature.

  “Shouldn’t we find a college or a library to get nursing books before you start offering their services at an underground hospital?”

  “It’s better to start treating patients right from the beginning,” Grace answered. “You’re right, Laura. We should look for books, too. If they were going to real nursing school, they’d have clinical experience the first semester. I’m with Elise. Let’s get this ball rolling!”

  “Okay, after breakfast we’ll go to the underground clinic and find someplace to look for nursing books,” Steve said. “We’re occupying the land, like it says in the Bible.”

  “Oh no, not more bible verses,” Kelly groaned.

  “Hey, lay off Steve,” Mike said, but he was smiling.

  Laura turned her back, pretending to wash out the coffee pot before she filled it again, tears near the surface. Lately, she always felt like she was about to cry, simple tasks taking on new meaning, the lowliest acts the most reassuring.

  Non-stop coffee making had become one of those comforting tasks. Someone was always coming by the trailer for a cup. The camp now had new people who would drink coffee with her, telling their stories, enriching her life.

  Listening to Mike talking, laughing with their children, friends and family, she had a new sense of his individuality. Being together for so many years, now twenty-four/seven, she had forgotten that he wasn’t merely an extension of her. Thinking of him in this way was thrilling, like she seeing him, once again, for the first time. She’d try to be more grateful, to show him more consideration.

  Tending to the needs of her children without worrying about her former job had fulfilled a dream. Her dad was correct; they were occupying the land. Stretching everyone to their fullest potential, it would have nothing to do with making money or college degrees or employment potential. The realization that her children might actually benefit from what was happening to the country engulfed her with emotion. Bowing her head, Laura gave thanks for her life and family.

  If her daughters wanted to practice nursing, they would do so and nothing would stand in their way, no waiting lists or acceptance boards or overwhelming examinations.

  The same thing was true for her son. The assignment given him at birth; Down Syndrome, would not define him. He’d already proven that he was capable of acting on behalf of the lives of others without faltering. She was not going to stand in his way.

  ***

  Traffic, both auto and foot leaving Washington was horrendous due to public transportation permanently out-of-service. A skeleton staff occupied the White House; those workers who had no place else to go or no families waiting for them. They’d stay and serve until no longer needed. Unfortunately, the kitchen staff left hours earlier. John and Mary Eastman foraged through the gigantic refrigerator, assembling a lavish buffet for their dinner, which included several different desserts.

  Both drank too much wine and were silly and giddy, winding through the dark rooms and hallways with flashlights. “This is a dream come true,” Eastman admitted. “Don’t get me wrong, I am so grateful for my career. But being in the White House, now that’s a coup.”

  “I’m so proud of you, John,” Mary said, taking his arm in hers. “We’ve really had a fabulous life. Our daughter and her little angels, our travels, the famous people we’ve met; I couldn’t be more satisfied with the way it turned out.” In a rare display of affection, Eastman turned to Mary and embraced her.

  “I hope this is just the beginning of more excitement for you. I’d never have come this far if it weren’t for you.” He didn’t add, “and your parent’s money.”

  Climbing several flights of stairs, the couple arrived at the wing where Eastman took over a small, private office, at Albert Johnson’s insistence. He had a few loose ends he wanted to pull together. Earlier that evening, he’d been unable to reach any of his military cohorts, going door to door as he said he would, but no one was home. Somehow, he had to find a way to gather those men together to discover what their next move would be. But first, he wanted to tell his daughter where her parents were spending the night.

  There was a small bedroom off the office and Mary was already in bed, reading while John tried to make his call.

  “How much longer will you be?” she called.

  “Just a few more minutes. I want to contact Amanda, but the phone service here is as bad as it is everywhere else. What’s the point of being in the White House if you…” His words were obliterated as the deafening sound of a jet, or maybe a rocket screamed nearby, and then hit.

  Ralph Jones was in the darkened offices of The Winston Clarke Humanitarian Fellowship digging through files when he saw the blast, saw the skies above Pennsylvania Avenue light up like July 4th. Gasping, he ran to the window to watch the brilliant display, stunned and frightened. Was it part of Clarke’s plan?

  Grabbing the only file with his name on it, and hoping there was nothing more that could incriminate him; he left the offices for the last time, running down the staircase. A plastic file drawer in the back seat of his car held his important papers. As soon as he was able, he’d burn his employment records. The car was loaded with clothing, all the food from his apartment, water and his computer. He was about to join the few surviving inhabitants of the Potomac River Valley as they made their way south and west to safety.

  An Excerpt of Burn District 2

  Prologue

  The last TV broadcast from WDOC ended abruptly in full view of the few watchers in its viewing area. Albert Johnson, acting president of the United States, hid with his wife, Sharon in a government bunker in the Virginia suburbs. They had water and electricity and enough canned food to last for a few more weeks. Private Smith, a nineteen year old from Phoenix was the only military personal left. She was in terrible shape psychologically, and Sharon Johnson spent most of the time tending to her.


  After nearly two months in the bunker, the only contact they had with the outside world was sporadic television broadcasts from WDOC, a privately funded television station. The owners vowed to stay on as long as they could and faithfully almost every morning, they’d air whatever news they could find, more recently, “Nothing new today.” According to the calendar Albert obsessively maintained so they wouldn’t lose track of time, it was Monday, February 6th. They always left the TV on, just in case of breaking news, but nothing unusual had happened in in a long time. Sharon brought his coffee in, a ritual she relished, the last vestige of normalcy.

  “They just arrived on the set,” he whispered, so as not to wake up Private Smith.

  “Sit with me and watch.”

  A haggard-looking couple walked onto the set. The woman came toward the camera and made some adjustments, looking down into the lens and back up at a monitor over her head. “How’s it look?” she called. The man, shuffling papers, looked up at the monitor.

  “It’s good,” he answered. “Hurry up.” She walked behind the desk and sat on her stool. Albert wished they’d sit closer to the camera, it was the same complaint he had every morning.

  “Good morning,” the man said. “This is may be the last broadcast so I want to be quick about it. This is what we know for sure; the station, in Montgomery County is surrounded by military vehicles.”

  “It’s not our military, however,” the woman stated. A crash heard coming from out of view of the camera, the couple stood up, clinging to each other and moved away from a group of men approaching with assault rifles. One coming toward the camera, knocking it off its stand, wasn’t aware it was running.

  “They’re broadcasting!” A man yelled in perfect English with a Midwest accent. “Hide your face.” Then static. Albert and Sharon looked at each other, horrified.

  “That does it,” Albert said standing up. “We need to get the hell out of here.”