It felt to the three of them gathered around the TV as though they were the unwitting witnesses to a terrible tragedy; it was at once fascinating and repulsive.
“The poor woman,” said Jessica after a minute had passed, and then she reached over and changed the channel.
“Are you hungry,” asked Jessica.
Jim hadn’t even given food a thought. At the mention of it, his stomach gave a low grumble. How long had this day been? Jim gave Jessica a look of thanks. Jessica smiled and headed towards the kitchen shouting back over her shoulder “Ham and cheese sandwiches okay for you two boys?”
“Sounds great,” he replied and as she disappeared into the kitchen he took the time to ask Thomas a question: “How you holding up?”
Thomas took just a second to consider it before answering. “I’m afraid,” he said candidly and continued to scan the channels for signs of life.
Eighteen
Jessica was fetching their sandwiches from the kitchen — thick chunks of sourdough bread with what must have been half a pig packed between each slice — into the living room when they finally found a live broadcast.
On the screen a man in his late forties, his graying hair brushed meticulously across his forehead and the hint of a day’s worth of stubble peppering his jaw, sat behind a horseshoe shaped presenters desk with room for another two people on either side of him. The logo of WWN, the World Wide News network fixed prominently to the front of the desk. The man seemed to be talking to someone off camera as he rearranged papers on his desk, although he was obviously speaking no sound came from the TV. The newscaster looked vaguely familiar and it was Jessica who finally identified him.
“Norm Jones?” she said as she handed Jim his plate of meat.
“Right,” said Jim, drawing the word out to twice its length and snapping his fingers in recognition.
Norm Jones had been an anchor with the local Los Angeles WWN affiliate for as far back as Jim could remember. He had retired a few years back (or a multitude of years from now, depending on how you chose to view it). Now here he was, looking tired, looking confused, but the familiar face was a reassuring sign that normality had not completely disappeared off the face of the earth, the newsman had become an anchor in a much higher sense of the word.
“Did you turn the sound off?” Jessica asked.
“Nope,” Jim said. “They must be having technical problems.”
A sudden burst of static from the television was quickly replaced by a strong, sonorous male voice. “—on yet?… Okay… Apparently, you can now hear me.” The presenter seemed to relax a little, some of the stiffness leaving his stress-lined face as he settled back into his chair.
“I have to apologize for the rough construction of this broadcast but as I am sure you are all aware this is not a normal day. We here at WWN are trying to pull together as much information from around the country and the world as we possibly can. Unfortunately, we are operating with limited staff due to the,” he paused searching for the appropriate word, “…event. I must also apologize for my ability to present this segment, as it’s been ten years since I last sat in this chair and I may be a little rusty.
“We have pulled as many news feeds from the network satellites as possible. In summary: This does not appear to be a localized event. From the limited contact we have had with other news networks — and I must stress that it has been very limited — both here in the US and worldwide, they are experiencing similar, and in some cases far worse circumstances to our own. The consensus of opinion seems to be that there is no current explanation for the event but it does seem clear that an extraordinary occurrence has taken place. We have attempted to contact authorities but have received no reply to our calls. If anybody watching this broadcast is able to explain this situation then we would be most happy to hear from you.”
Norm rifled through a pile of papers on his desk until he found one he was looking for.
“In summary, here is what we have learned so far, and I must repeat that all of this is of course unsubstantiated at the moment: The country is in chaos. Emergency services seem to be non-existent; most telecommunications seem to be down, although some areas do appear to have telephone service. There are reports of several large aircraft crashes throughout the state, including several within Los Angeles Airport and its outlying areas. Fires are burning uncontrolled in most parts of the city. Freeways appear to be impassable due to the large number of vehicular accidents; the same applies to most main streets throughout the city.
“We are receiving similar reports from—”
The newscaster stopped mid-sentence, his left hand moving to his ear as if listening to someone whispering to him.
“—and I’m getting new information… yes… that we are about to receive a special feed from the Whitehouse — are we ready? Do we have the feed lined up? Okay — the Whitehouse.”
Replacing the WWN anchor, another image appeared. A lacquered teak lectern, the presidential seal prominently placed on the wooden upright and echoed in a larger form on the wall of the room in the background.
A door opened and a commotion of people entered the room. One man walked to the lectern escorted by two others, their glances at the few press crowded in front and behind the camera as well as their flat-line expressions immediately betrayed them as secret service.
The man at the lectern shuffled a few papers before pulling the microphone closer to his mouth and then looking directly into the camera.
A shock of black hair highlighted a narrow face watched over by carefully manicured eyebrows. Dressed in a black business suit with a blood-red tie, he looked to be in his fifties. A century before, he would have been described as dapper but tonight he looked drawn and gray: haggard. Pale puffed flesh under his eyes and pink tinged conjunctiva striated with blood.
A white caption appeared in bold letters at the bottom of the screen—VICE PRESIDENT NATHANIAL RODERICK.
“My fellow Americans,” Roderick began, staring deep into the lens of the camera. “I must first inform you that President Sarandon is incapacitated and, that I, as Vice President, have been appointed as President Pro Tem until she is able to resume control.” Roderick’s voice carried a certain lofty tone, bordering on arrogant.
“As you are all by now aware, a major event occurred today, the likes of which no one in the annals of history has ever before faced.
“It appears that the United States has suffered some form of preemptive attack; we do not know who the assailant is or why they have carried out this cowardly assault but you must rest assured that we are already performing the necessary tasks to understand the full impact of the situation.
“We do not know if this is a temporary effect or whether it is permanent, but you must have the utmost confidence that the best American minds are now applying themselves to solving this most disastrous of events.
“Just as you, the people of this great nation are experiencing a time of transition and acclimation, so too are we, your elected leaders. We are all moving through a period of conversion brought about by our present dilemma and it is with that information in mind that — for your safety — I am imposing a state of martial law and a curfew between the hours of six p.m. and ten a.m.
“Please, for your own safety, stay in your homes. This situation will be resolved as quickly as possible. In the meantime, I ask that you all be patient.”
He paused before adding, “God bless America.”
The broadcast from the White House faded, replaced once more with the face of Norm Jones, looking even more confused than he had before the broadcast. “Well,” he said to the camera. “Make of that what you will. But it appears that—”
Thomas pressed the off button on the TV remote and the screen went dead cutting the commentary off in mid-sentence.
* * *
They talked about the speech into the small hours of the early morning. It was less of a discussion, and more bringing Jessica up to speed on the events after her death.
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The original 2017 had been presided over by the first female president. President Sarandon had been an actor who was vehemently anti-war (some said anti-American) during the early part of the 21st century. She had run for office in ’16 and had gone on to serve two full terms, a respected and strong president who did much to fix the negative image created by her predecessor.
The President’s husband, also an actor, had seemed bemused at being the world’s first first-gentleman, but had taken it all in stride. Sarandon had spent her final days out of the limelight, rumored to be suffering from advanced Alzheimer’s disease.
President Sarandon’s VP was a different kettle-of-fish altogether. It was well known that a wide political rift separated the President from her running mate, their two offices often finding themselves in conflict.
A graduate from the Bush school of diplomacy, Roderick allegedly opposed President Sarandon’s light-handed approach to politics and non-confrontational attitude to policing the world’s hot spots. He was a closet megalomaniac who was so incensed by Sarandon’s repealing of numerous laws he had personally shepherded through congress, it was rumored he had come close to demanding an impeachment on several occasions.
In an expose after his retirement, he was portrayed as a dangerous man with expansionist ideals, a potential warmonger who had only been kept in check by the powerful personality of President Sarandon. A biographer would later quote one source as saying… not since Machiavelli has politics seen a more dangerous, cunning, and potentially disastrous politician.
“The man was… is crazy, I shudder to think what he’s up to now,” said Thomas.
Of course, there were other complications to the political scene that had not immediately been apparent.
In 2042, the President had been — would be? Could be? — Jerome Faulkner, the second African American president. He was a well liked man, nothing remarkable to his Presidency, but at least he wasn’t interested in forcing ‘American values’ down the throat of the rest of the world, whether they wanted it or not.
He was the duly elected president, but of course, he was not going to actually be elected for many years yet.
“How the hell will they deal with that situation,” Jim asked.
“It’s beside the point,” Thomas said. “How old was he when he was elected? Forty? Forty-five?”
Jim nodded that the figure was close enough and after a pause while he digested what Thomas was getting at, realized his point. Somewhere out there, in Maine if he remembered correctly, the man who would in the future history of the world, be elected president was now eighteen years old.
“Strange times,” said Thomas as he saw the realization spread over Jim’s face. “Strange times indeed.”
It had been a strange day that had moved into a surreal night. Eventually, exhaustion and fatigue flowed over Jim’s body like a wave, and he excused himself.
“Goodnight James,” said Thomas, as Jessica hugged him and whispered in his ear, “In case all of this is gone in the morning.”
Nineteen
Rebecca was not surprised when her parents had informed her in hushed tones that her nightmare had in fact not been a dream. Even now, as she remembered it she fought the urge to throw-up.
Her mother and father, sitting across the breakfast table in the cramped kitchen of their doublewide, must have realized that her thoughts had strayed again because mom reached out and quickly took her daughter’s hand in her own, toppling the bottle of maple syrup that they had just used with their pancake breakfast.
“Are you okay Becky,” she asked, concern stitched across her face.
Rebecca swallowed hard and managed a weak smile. I probably look like a corpse grinning, she thought to herself.
She pushed the images of the glinting knife out of her head and asked her question again, “Please Dad, tell me what happened. I need to know.”
It had been three days since Becky had found herself so suddenly back in her childhood bedroom: three days of utter confusion, not only for her but also for the entire world.
Nobody really knew what was going on — even though the provisional government would have liked everybody to believe that they had some idea — but at least there was some kind of television coverage now. On the first day, there had been virtually nothing, but now the networks were getting their act together and most of the channels that had been nothing but static or automated broadcasts were broadcasting coverage of the event. Telecasts and news reports from around the world showed humanity in utter chaos.
It was odd to contrast the images beaming into the Lacey home to the peaceful almost tranquil oasis of small town Pahrump, Nevada. A little less than sixty miles west of Las Vegas, this hardscrabble town of forty thousand was isolated on all sides by mountain ranges and desert.
There was no airport to speak of, just a private strip that saw the occasional light aircraft flying in or out. There was a hospital that, according to Dr. Weaver who lived a few doors down from Becky and her family, had seen only a few cases on the day of the event;
a couple of heart attacks (one of those turned out to be just a mild case of angina) and a car wreck or two. Amazingly, there were no fatalities and certainly nothing to compare to the devastation that the other metropolitan areas of the U.S. had suffered. Becky had also learned from Doc Weaver that she wasn’t the only resurectee in town. There were others who had ‘passed away’ as the gentle doctor put it, only to find themselves alive again. For some reason unknown to Becky this news relieved a stress she hadn’t known was there until it was gone.
Looking south through the kitchen window of her parents double-wide, past the backyard towards Mount Charleston she could still see the cloud of smoke that had gathered in the sky over Las Vegas.
The city of sin had been hit hard. McCarran International had been devastated and most of the hotels that lined the strip close by had been destroyed when an incoming jet had cart-wheeled through the main terminus and over into the nearest casino. The resulting fire had swept through the town taking most of the classic landmarks and reducing them to ashes and skeletal beams that jutted into the sky, the fire so voracious it had quickly overwhelmed the confused and lost L.V. Fire department.
Then had come three days of her parents avoiding her questions.
Now she pushed the question home, “Mom. Dad. Please? I need to know,” she repeated. Her parents regarded each other across the breakfast table. Finally, after a long moment of speechless communication, a pale Kimberly Lacey nodded faintly to her husband and he turned and explained what had happened to his daughter.
* * *
As her father spoke, Rebecca confirmed most of what the cops had pieced together by themselves: the night out with friends, the club where she and her friends met for the evening, talking and laughing. And when the night was over, Rebecca had hailed a cab outside the bar and taken it home to her modest apartment. Her last memory before she found herself immersed in her nightmare had been pushing the key into the lock that would open the security gate that kept out unwanted visitors from the grounds of the apartment building. Everything after that was a confused mess of images and thoughts.
The very last thing she remembered with any clarity was laying on her kitchen table… and the man. And the knife. She remembered the knife.
Her Father filled in the blanks while her mother sat stone-faced, tears slipping down her pale cheeks.
“The police think that he followed you home,” her father said choking back a sob before continuing. “From the autopsy report they think that he hit you with something while you were trying to get through the security gate. They found some of your blood on the ground near the gate and you had a blunt-force trauma to the back of your head.” He reached up and tapped the corresponding spot on the back of his own head.
“The officer from LAPD said that whoever had done this to you had carried you to your room. They thought that he had been watching you for weeks, that it might even be somebody that you knew.
”
“I didn’t know him,” Becky interjected, “I saw his face. I didn’t recognize him.”
Becky watched her father take a deep gulp of air and hold it before continuing his account.
“Somebody from the apartment called the police because… because… it was five days before anybody knew you were missing and…” Mr. Lacey scrambled to find the right words, “There were complaints from your neighbors. They thought that maybe the sewers had backed up. When the apartment manager opened up your door, that’s when they found you and called the police.
“That was ten years ago, sweetheart. Not one day has gone by that we haven’t talked about you. We were, are so proud of you.”
“We missed you so much baby. And now you have been brought back,” said Mrs. Lacey reaching out to touch her resurrected daughters cheek. “It’s a miracle,” she added in a tight whisper. “A miracle.”
* * *
Rebecca Lacey did not believe that her resurrection was a miracle. Her parents were good people; salt of the earth would have been a descriptive cliché if it were not for the fact that it applied to her parents one-hundred percent.
Her father was a lineman for the local power company; her mom drove one of the school buses that ferried children from the north end of the valley to the high schools in the south. They led a below-average lifestyle on a below-average income.
Bringing up a child was a hardship for anybody, it was doubly so in this small, poor town. But this hard-working couple soon learned that their young daughter was anything but below average.
She had aced her aptitude tests from the first grade up and it wasn’t long before her parents received a call from the school. Informed that their daughter was special, bright beyond her years; the school councilor had recommended that Becky be placed on the academic fast track. It was the councilor’s recommendation that she move from the public school to one that would challenge her intellectually, a private school with personal educators. They recommended a school where her full potential could develop and where the very best teachers would coach her, allowing her nascent intelligence to flourish and grow.
Extinction Point: The End ep-1 Page 35
