Burning Skies (Book 2): Fallout

by Druga, Jacqueline

  Fallout

  Burning Skies

  Book 2

  Jacqueline Druga

  Copyright © Jacqueline Druga 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No affiliation is implied or intended to any organization or recognizable body mentioned within.

  Published by Vulpine Press in the United Kingdom in 2018

  Cover by Claire Wood

  ISBN: 978-1-912701-15-5

  www.vulpine-press.com

  To my daughter Veronica, for all the nights you had to sit and listen to me work out this story and for all your feedback, I dedicate this book to you.

  Chapter One

  Cleveland, Ohio

  Harris Clemmons watched the world end on a ten-inch monitor screen from the second subbasement floor of Kobak, Stewart, and Lane Securities. It wasn’t hard to miss. He was watching for it. People running, an abundance of interference on his screens, a distant flash, then nothing.

  Now he sat in a room built for such an event.

  Twenty-four hours had passed.

  Harris was alone. He didn’t need to be. That was something he grappled with.

  He had worked security there and had done so for six years. He usually worked the second shift; he preferred it. Harris wasn’t a morning person and liked to stay up late and binge watch old television shows. The second shift worked perfectly for him.

  It was a pretty cool job. Easy, too.

  Most days were spent swiveling back and forth in his chair while watching the wall of monitors that spanned the office building and exterior doors.

  Camera A2 was a wide-angled street view. How many times did he have to pull footage for the police because of a theft or accident?

  That same camera was his window to the apocalypse. Or rather, he assumed it was the apocalypse. He didn’t know, and he wasn’t about to go outside and find out.

  Harris had heard the news about New York about two hours before he headed in for his shift. Figuring he could watch the news at work, he went in. He was certain though to bring what he called his ‘shift survival supplies.’ Items such as snacks, beverages, a second lunch, and extra vape juice for his electronic cigarette, just in case things heated up and his shift relief didn’t show. That had happened before. He wasn’t going to take a chance of sitting there, starving, wanting badly to break into the silver supply cabinet. He made the mistake of touching that once and was written up. The one and only time he got into trouble in his six years working there.

  Mr. Kobak kept valuable items in that basement in a room off the security area. Mr. Kobak was also one of those big survivalists. He’d even purchased a fifty-thousand-dollar space in one of those luxury bunkers. He planned as well for his security people. In the silver cabinet were rations, water, and other supplies for three people for ten days.

  Harris couldn’t recall the last time there were three people on shift.

  There was also a binder with tips and guidelines for practical survival.

  During the days that would come he would memorize that book, saving the other activities for later.

  It seemed more like a holiday than a workday; the office was empty. Harris received a phone call from Mr. Lane stating that he wouldn’t blame him if he left.

  Left? Why? Why would he leave? Plus, his relief never showed up and so Harris rolled into the graveyard shift which was quite interesting on a Friday night.

  The securities building was a block from the cultural district. An Irish Tavern was across the street and people often parked near his building to walk to the nightlife.

  That was his source of entertainment. Watching the people do the drunken strut. He was amazed at how much what was happening in New York didn’t faze them.

  Those same Friday night dwellers were his best indicator something was happening.

  In an instant, folks went from casually walking to running and panicked.

  Harris turned on the news and they were naming cities. Cities that were hit or targeted by nuclear weapons.

  He didn’t hear Cleveland, so he felt safe. The people outside weren’t so confident. Cars crashed outside and ten minutes before everything powered down, somehow, people were pounding on the door. How did they know about it? Were they workers in the building?

  Optimistic for the best but preparing for the worst, Harris placed the locks on manual before he had no choice.

  There were six people in the hall, all of them shouting, pounding.

  “You’re killing us!”

  “Let us in!”

  “Open the damn door.”

  Harris shook his head. He wasn’t killing them. If the bombs came, they were the ones that were killing them. Even then, they were three stories below ground. Anything other than a direct hit, they were fine. Steel door keeping them in a room or not.

  Harris wasn’t letting them in. He didn’t know them, and he only had rations for ten days for three people. Alone, he could make that last a long time. But alone, he’d go insane. Even though insanity wasn’t very likely, Harris was consumed with guilt. He was a God-fearing Christian man, and it wasn’t very Christian to let those people wait outside in a hall without any provisions.

  When he last checked, four of the six remained. He didn’t know where they went or why they’d even leave to go topside to the mayhem and danger.

  When Harris opened the door, there were only two people left. A man and a woman. He didn’t say anything to them, he just allowed them into the room, then closed and locked the door.

  White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia

  When Madeline Tanner was a little girl, she had a vintage Barbie Doll Airplane. It was given to her by an aunt who got it from somewhere else. It wasn’t plastic or sturdy, more so vinyl and flexible. When closed it looked neat and just like a case. When opened it was supposed to be the interior of a plane. It had a flight attendant kitchen and a seating area. The problem was, it wasn’t functioning like the later airplanes. The kitchen cabinet doors were just piece soft vinyl that opened, exposing a picture.

  It was the ‘idea’ of a plane that made it fun for her, not that she could even lift it up and pretend to fly. It was a relic of its time.

  Much like the Greenbrier Mountain Bunker.

  On the outside it was interesting and pretty but, on the inside, what was there wasn’t altogether real or functioning.

  Perhaps at one time, the bunker was state of the art.

  It was partly nestled under a five-star resort and went deep under the mountain, originally designed to be the hub for congress in the event of an attack on the United States. Up to one thousand people. However, as the years progressed, and the cold war ended, the usefulness of the bunker was lessened and what was once a premier place of survival was transformed into a mockery of a time gone by, and the bunker was made into a museum.

  In fact, the entire first floor was redesigned to be a casino. The other areas were roped off and made into displays. The yearly rotating of food supplies ceased.

  The bunker wasn’t feasible.

  The soldiers had then restored it to its original purpose, and the work had started long before the attacks on American soil.

  It was a safe place. Now serving as the nation’s capital, the White House, and the Pentagon.<
br />
  Just as Greenbrier had transformed, so did Madeline. She had gone from speaker of the house to president in less than two days.

  Everything that had occurred in the previous twenty-four hours was a blur. She saw many faces, heard many names, none of which she recalled very clearly. She wasn’t in the mindset to be the leader and make decisions. Not yet. She was still trying to understand what all had happened and sort out the abundance of grief she was dealing with. Grief for her friends, her family, and her country.

  Her aide, Lillian, went from being helpful to being useless. Madeline understood, the shock wore off and Lilian kept repeating, “I just want to go home.”

  They had adjoining rooms, however the door just didn’t seem thick enough for Madeline to block out the sobs that carried to her from Lillian, so she threw on some clothing and made her way to the main floor of the bunker.

  It was quiet, many of the soldiers were still rearranging things, carrying boxes in and out. She slipped by them unnoticed and walked over to the far wall where, for entertainment purposes, they placed slot machines.

  She had a twenty-dollar bill in the pocket of her jeans and she sat down at the Triple Seven Diamond slot machine, hitting the button slowly, hoping for a hit so she could sit mindlessly for a while until the morning arrived along with the bigger decisions.

  “Ma’am.” He sat down next to her. “Can’t sleep?”

  She paused in her playing and looked at him. His name was Troy, a Captain, Special Forces, his last name slipped her mind. She remembered him. He and his team, like her, were thrust into positions of authority and power they weren’t ready to face.

  “Not really, Captain. Can anyone sleep?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He tilted his head. “I have a couple of my mine who are passed out pretty good. Can I offer you …” He showed her a bottle, and in his other hand he held plastic cups. “If I am out of line, I apologize …”

  “No, not at all. Thank you. I’d love one, Captain.”

  “Troy.” He handed her a glass. “Call me Troy.”

  “Then in that case.” She took the drink. “Call me Madeline.”

  “Ma’am, I cannot do that.”

  “Yes … you can.” She sipped it, paused, cringed at the burn, and then took another drink. “Down here, we are in this together. We are …” She closed her eyes and sounded desperate. “What are we doing here? What?”

  “Aside from sitting in the corner of a bunker that was once a casino after it was a bunker, drinking really expensive bourbon and playing slots …” He shrugged. “Trying like hell to think of a way to save the country.”

  “Yeah, that.” She sniffed. “All I keep thinking of is my husband.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. He’s alive. I’m sure of it. Ironically, he was in this state. West Virginia. He was born here, you know?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Born and bred. He likes to rent a cabin at a place called Holly River,” she said. “Pretty deep in the woods. No cell service, no internet, nothing. Oh wait …” She lifted her glass then sipped. “There’s a pay phone. He probably doesn’t even know what happened. In fact, I am pretty sure he hasn’t a clue things fell apart.”

  “He’ll find you.”

  “No doubt.” She held her empty glass to Troy for a refill. “In the meantime, we are a country torn asunder. Every available soldier is scattered, not to mention how many are overseas. We have rumors of a ground invasion. One already here and the big one on the way, but we can’t confirm where because communications aren’t reliable.”

  “We have farmers with pitchforks,” he said.

  She glanced curiously at him.

  “Well, militia and citizens willing to take arms against the enemy. We’re ready.”

  “How do we rally them?”

  “We will. Just … give us a day or two.”

  “Hmm.” She nodded. “Everything fell apart in four hours. Imagine what can happen in a day or two. Now … I’m not faulting anyone. I know everyone is trying.”

  “We are.”

  “I don’t know how to try,” she whispered. “This is way out of my league.”

  “You’ll get there. We’ll … get there.”

  “How? Why did this happen?”

  “That’s not important, is it?” he asked. “What is important is what we do now. And that is, take control. Take it back. This is our country, our home, and we are resilient. One way or another, and I promise you”—he splashed some whiskey in her glass—“we will take it back.”

  Type 920 Hospital Ship, Pacific Ocean

  She was actually Ministry of Security and not military, yet she was dressed like military: blue, gray, and white camouflage pants, combat boots, and jacket. It was the combat uniform of the People’s Republic of China’s Navy. Fen Shu had to dress that way, otherwise there would be a lack of respect if she stood on the deck of the ship, projecting authority in a black skirt and heals.

  She was a genius with an ability to make frighteningly correct predictions for events based on calculating facts of current situations. The youngest ever to achieve such a high position of authority in security, let alone being a woman.

  Fen was the heart behind the invasion of the United States. The entire take down. But all of that praise would be lost if it was found out her uncle was the president.

  That was a little-known fact that she fought to keep secret.

  Although, sometimes she wondered if any respect she was given was simply because of her title and job, rather than who she was.

  Now she left her homeland to oversee what was being called the ‘Liberate America’ campaign. To some it appeared drastic but, in reality, Fen’s realty, the measures were needed. Insurgent movements were removed, the nuclear weapons that were deployed were a measure used not only to cripple the insurgents and imbedded terrorist but to bring pause to the country. A pause needed so Liberate America could make landfall by air and sea.

  On the humanitarian front it was a campaign that would restore law and order to the territories of the United States as well as provide food, shelter, and healthcare for the citizens who had been mistreated by the government.

  On the political side of the fence, it was control of commodities.

  While China produced a large portion of the world’s food—it produced enough to be self-sustaining—most of its output was consumed locally. And no other country in the world relied on them to eat. However, the United States was a different story. It controlled seventy percent of the world’s consumable exports and control of that was invaluable.

  She wanted it all. Her aspirations would push her to do all that she could to be the person who was in charge.

  He or she that controlled the food … controlled the world.

  Despite the global domination prospects for her country and herself, the plan wasn’t embraced by all. Many viewed it as radical, unnecessary, callous, and sneaky … no one saw it coming, nor was there reason for it.

  Unprovoked.

  Words spoken by leaders such as General Jian Liu.

  But Liberate America went off without a hitch and stayed under the radar before military leaders such as Liu could do anything to intervene.

  His strong objections would make for an uncomfortable journey across the pacific.

  As she stood on the deck of the 920 just beyond the med staff café, she felt that uncomfortableness before she looked over her shoulder.

  General Liu was an orphan who joined the army at the age of sixteen. Despite thirty years of dedicated service, he managed to have a family. A wife and two daughters. If it was even more possible, in recent years since his wife’s untimely passing, Liu had thrown himself more into his work, especially with his daughters reaching adulthood.

  He had no political aspiration because under his own admittance, he was too opinionated and outspoken.

  Fen, who rarely feared anything, had feared him a little and she never understood why. Her jo
b, her life was protected, in a sense by the political power of her uncle.

  Still, he spoke to her as if he didn’t know her uncle was president, or he didn’t care.

  She peered over her shoulder as he walked her way and took a deep breath. She had successfully avoided him over the last few months, at least face to face, but now they were travelling together. Even a floating hospital the size of two football fields didn’t seem quite big enough.

  He cleared his throat as he approached her at the railing, his way of announcing his presence.

  “General.” She bowed her head in a show of respect for her elder.

  He hummed, nodded in return, and faced the ocean. “While I appreciate your show of solidarity for our country and those who serve it, I believe wearing that uniform is a misrepresentation and you should consider changing it.”

  “I did not want the men or women who serve to see me as any different.”

  “You give orders that must be followed. From a different position than I. So therefore, you are different. They say if you want to be heard by the ducks you must quack like a duck. I am not sure any uniform can make you”—he glanced at her—“reach the ducks.” He returned his stare back to the ocean. “If it is a matter of comfort, I am sure suitable comfortable clothing can be found.”

  “You speak to me with such disrespect.”

  “I speak to you with honesty and as an elder. As an elder, I request you not wear the uniform of the men and women who are now forced to leave their homes and families.”

  “They are performing their duties for a humanitarian cause,” she argued.

  “Save your delusions of being the next Statue of Liberty for those ignorant enough to believe that is your motivation. This … war, and that is what it is, was short sighted in planning.”

  Fen roared in laughter. “Short sighted? We have successfully crippled the United States of America.”

  The general nodded. “By strategic nuclear hits. The high population east and west, douse a few in the middle here and there.”