A nod in the affirmative was August’s only response. His eyes were wide, and his chin was lowered almost to his chest, signaling defeat.
Bronson sighed and relented. “Well, have you given any thought as to who would act as your replacement?”
“I have, yes, sir. Two agents under my charge have already expressed their interest. Special Agent Joe Forrest and Agent Lewis Walker. I’ve given them both my recommendation, although I believe Special Agent Forrest would be the best choice. Agent Walker has a tendency to be a…bit of a loose cannon.”
Bronson grabbed a pen and scribbled a few notes onto a pad of medium-sized Post-its. “This is good info, Agent Carter. I’ll consider your recommendations.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now—seeing as how I can’t agree to allow you a permanent sabbatical, do you have any suggestions of where you’d prefer to be transferred to?”
August Carter shrugged, turning his head away to avoid eye contact. “Honestly, sir, anywhere is fine with me. So long as it keeps me far away from the annex…especially Area E.”
Bronson gave him an indignant look. He reached forward and turned his computer monitor back on. Navigating through a maze of windows, he opened a folder containing personnel files, soon finding the file belonging to his visitor. As he went to open it, Bronson’s eye caught a glimpse of the file situated alphabetically after August Carter’s, the one carrying his wife’s name, the author of the report hanging on the edge of Bronson’s desk.
Bronson opened her file as well, but quickly minimized it after catching a glimpse of Beatrice’s Southern belle-esque headshot. Distracted, he forced himself to concentrate on perusing August’s dossier.
Bronson rubbed his chin with his free hand while his eyebrows danced. “Looks like you’ve had quite the career. homeland security investigations, immigration and customs enforcement…you even garnered the regional chief position with the DRO. I’m seeing a lot of commendations here. Quite the career—you have a lot to be proud of.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“No. Thank you, Agent Carter. Thank you for your loyalty…and for serving the cause, especially now. You’ve been more than diligent—exceptionally so—even prior to the world changing.”
August nodded his head and smiled. “It’s always been my calling to serve, I suppose. Enemies foreign and domestic, and that whole thing. It sold me a long time ago. I’ve always been a patriot.”
While August droned on for a while about his career and experiences, Bronson traded his attention to Beatrice’s file, soon finding that she, too, had been a longtime devoted proponent of private-sector federal government vocations. Only, her profile gave off a slightly different aura—one not nearly as revealing. One far more clandestine.
At the conclusion of his research, Bronson leaned back in his chair, ogling August. He gestured, for the umpteenth time, for the agent to take a seat again. “I think I might have a place for someone with your particular skill set, Mr. Carter. I have a new…well, not so much new…it’s more of a pet project, so to speak, that I’ve been needing to get off the ground and running. I think, with your experience in consonant matters, it would make for a…symbiotic match.”
August’s look was blanketed with profound interest, but he said nothing.
Doug Bronson calculated a response from his expression. “I take it that you’d like to be read-in?”
Nodding, August said, “Yes, sir.”
“Very well,” Bronson said, reaching for a rarely used button on the underside of his desk that when pressed, sent a page to his receptionist.
The door opened a moment later, and Tori stepped in, gnawing voraciously on a pencil. “You buzzed me?”
“Tori, be a dear, and bring me the file folder we spoke about yesterday—the one in the secure cabinet marked with an x,” Bronson requested, his tone more flattering than it had been with her earlier on.
Tori nodded and walked away, only to return moments later with a thick brown leather folder. She placed it on Bronson’s desk, turned, and sashayed out the way she’d come without saying a word.
Bronson pointed to the folder, gesturing welcomingly. “Go ahead, Mr. Carter. Take a peek. Everything you need to know about your new assignment is inside.”
August finally took a seat. He picked up the folder, unsnapped the hasp, and pulled out a pile of papers from within, held together with paperclips. Supporting the pile on his lap, he began thumbing through them, quickly finding the summary and outline. After taking a moment to read them, his eyes darted up at Bronson. “Operation Solve for X?” August inquired, his brow raised.
Bronson nodded and said nothing, merely pursing his lips.
August’s eyes moved left to right and downward while scanning each line of text on the first page before flipping it over and moving on to the second and the third. He paused after a few moments. “Sir, if I’m correct in what I’m reading, this pet project is, in fact, not a project by any means. It’s a sanctioned operation involving the use of rather uncommon methods of warfare.”
“So far, so good, Mr. Carter,” Bronson jeered sarcastically. “Your reading comprehension is well above par.”
“Yes, but…I know nothing of this particular type of warfare, or any warfare in general.”
“Are you not an expert, in some fashion, Mr. Carter, in dealing with outcasts, belligerents, or…undesirables?”
“I suppose so, sir. In a manner of speaking, yes. But I’m reading things here alluding to the use of deception and outright immoral conduct. It’s—and I’m sorry for even using the phrase—but it’s practically domestic terrorism. I’ve heard rumors that these types of operations existed before. I just never believed the rumors were actually true.”
“I’m going to be straight with you, August,” Bronson said. “Can I call you August?”
August Carter shrugged. “Sure. I don’t see why not.”
“You see, August, we have this—dilemma. We’ve had two opportunities thus far to brush off a small assemblage of heavily armed insurgents—both of which times, we have incurred a significant loss of life, and I do not wish for a repeat of the same. These people—these belligerents—are a threat to our existence—a hinderance to our operation and to our mission—and they must be put down like the rabid dogs they are. It’s that simple.”
He paused. “Now, on the surface, Solve for X may appear to be, as you put it, a form of domestic terrorism. But the tactics listed within those pages are proven game winners, and I, both personally and professionally, believe they have become necessary for our long-term success. This is about winning a war, August, and while winning is important, it’s far more important to do so without further loss of life. Moving westward puts us closer to the finality of this calamity, and in order to move westward, we must put down this guerilla mob standing in our way. There are many ways to achieve victory. Using Solve for X, we can do so without incurring casualties, and…probably without even firing a single shot.”
The agent shrugged. “Okay, I get that. I get everything you said, but—”
“Sorry to interrupt, but is Beatrice Carter your wife?” Bronson asked, his eyeballs darting to his computer.
August nodded, looking perplexed. “Yes, sir. She is.”
“She’s very beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“No, sir—I mean, I don’t mind.” August blushed. “Thank you.”
“You know, August, if it would help season the pot a little for you, I can look into commandeering her help for this—she could be just as involved with the operation as you are.”
August leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Is there any particular reason why, sir? If you don’t mind me asking?”
Bronson stirred a moment before pointing at the report half-hanging off the edge of his desk. “I received this incredibly insightful report just the other day. It was signed at the bottom by a Chief Correctional Officer Beatrice Carter. It was well written and quite informative. She’s claimin
g an uprising has begun within the confines of the camp.”
“Yes, sir,” August said with a look of seriousness. “She told me that as well.”
“August,” Bronson said, still pointing at the papers, “have you read this report?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, you should. It makes for fine reading. I assume, though, as husbands and wives do talk on occasion, you probably already know what lies within. Do you believe what your wife has discovered to be accurate?”
August lowered his brow and nodded. “Yes, sir. Beatrice wouldn’t conjure up something like that. She has a…well, an eye for sorting out things of that nature.”
“You mean subversion?”
Another nod. “Yes, sir. She’s had—forgive me, sir. She’s had training. Along those lines, and others.”
“Training? Your wife is former CIA, is she not?”
“Sir?”
“August, I’d appreciate it if you’d indulge me for a moment. A substantial amount of your wife’s records are classified. Some have even been permanently sealed, even destroyed—like they never existed,” Bronson said, his finger pointing to his computer monitor. “I take that to mean at one point in her career, she was either nonofficial cover, or possibly disavowed—I’m guessing the former of the two being the case. The latter wouldn’t have looked very appealing on her résumé.”
August sat back in his seat as his face grew a shade of puzzled. “Beatrice and I met in SERE school. That’s survival, evasion, resistance, and—”
“I’m aware of what the acronym stands for, Agent Carter.”
“Oh, sorry. Well, we sort of fell in love not long after graduating. She was approached by a recruiter there, who brought her in. We saw each other sporadically at best while she was in training—they were purposely keeping her away from people she knew personally. We dated, got engaged, and a couple of years later, she ended up being sent to Kuwait and I think maybe Afghanistan? It kind of put our wedding on hold.”
“It must’ve been tough on you two lovebirds.” Bronson rubbed his chin. “What did she do overseas?”
August shrugged. “I can’t answer that.”
Bronson smirked, reaching for his coffee. “Why? Because it’s classified? I assure you, August, my security clearance is still very much intact.”
“No, sir,” August replied. “It’s not that at all. It’s because I don’t know.”
Chapter 5
The cabin
Trout Run Valley
Wednesday, October 27th
Michelle Russell stood silently in the cellar, carefully examining what remained of the family’s diminishing stock of food supplies. Her eyes scrolled from one far end of the foundation wall to the other, tracking the shelves along their horizontal axes. She had her hands propped on her hips, a small notepad nestled between her fingers, and a troubled look painted on her face.
While mouthing numbers inaudibly, Michelle counted and calculated in her mind, something she had grown accustomed to doing since relocating to the valley and into the cabin following the collapse. Ever since resources had become precariously finite, she had maintained a solid grasp on the family’s inventory of emergency provisions, having analyzed them all the way down to the individual calorie. Taking it a step further, she had even constructed a predetermined dietary plan for caloric intake, specific to each person in her household, and had devised a visual method for discerning how much of an item remained in each food-grade container, eliminating the need to open them until the ingredients were needed.
She merchandised supplies like a grocery store employee, arranging items with more recent expiration dates, along with anything previously opened, to the front of the shelves. Anything unopened sat behind unsealed items, and empty containers were marked with a capital letter E, using a wax marking pencil, and then moved aside, stacked on top of one another. The pile of containers designated as empty had grown larger in recent months, nearly doubling in size, and nearly quadrupling Michelle’s anxiety.
Alex, the teenager fortuitously liberated from her captors during the incident at Devils Hole the previous week, stood just as silently a short distance alongside. She had traded the torn, sullied clothes she’d been wearing for some cleaner, more durable upgrades that Lauren had charitably provided from her closet—the two young women having nearly identical frames and statures. Alex had let her hair down today, and her untamed natural curls were cascading in layers through the rear of a red bandana she had tied around them reversed-bonnet style—mimicking a fashion sometimes seen in nineteen-seventies-era television shows. Alex also sported a headlamp Michelle had given her, and was busily pointing her beam in every direction to get a feel for her surroundings in the musty cellar. In the process, she noticed that Michelle was biting her lip.
“You seem lost in thought,” said Alex. “Did you want to do this alone? I’m not bothering you, am I?”
“No. No, Alex. Your being here is perfectly fine with me,” Michelle said. “I don’t mind the company. Up until recently, most often Grace was by my side. I used to call her my partner in crime. I guess she has other…things to occupy her attention now.” She turned away and hung her head a little. “Having you around the past week has been nice. I’m going to miss my new tagalong when she goes home.”
Alex produced a grin, but it faded quickly. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look very…worried.”
Michelle’s forced smile loosened into a smirk. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
“Sure is. I’ve never seen anyone bite their lip as long as you have today. I’m surprised it’s not bleeding.”
“You’re very observant. I’ve been a lip-biter for most of my life, although I’ll admit, I’ve been doing it more lately than I used to. It hasn’t bled in a while—I guess it’s toughened up.”
Alex batted her eyelashes. “I can usually tell when something is troubling someone. I read in a book once that lip biting can be a sign of worry.”
Michelle held her hand in the air and put her headlamp’s beam on her fingers. “If you think that’s a dead giveaway, take a look at these nails.”
Alex’s bright eyes opened wide and gazed at Michelle’s fingernails. She nodded. “Looks like you’ve been doing that for most of your life, too.” She looked down at Michelle’s notepad and then turned her attention innocently to the shelves. “Is this…all the food you have left or something?”
“As much as I hate to admit it, my young refugee friend, yes. It most unfortunately is.” Michelle paused and reached forward, arranging several large cans to view their expiration dates. “This is what’s left of the long-term food storage we put together before—well, before the day. It was a major part of a master backup plan my husband devised over the years, to help us survive if we ever needed it. I knew it wouldn’t last us forever, but then again, it was never meant to. It was just a buffer, although admittedly, we have been relying on it a great deal more than we ever should have.”
Michelle paused to jot down some notes and tally marks, then continued. “On the day we moved here, it was sufficient to sustain a family of four for two years, or thereabouts. My husband figured it would be plenty for him, me, and Lauren, with a little extra left over for extra-strenuous or stressful days.”
She pointed to the bottom shelf on an adjacent wall, supporting several dozen opened and unopened white five-gallon buckets. “That’s what he called our prepper pantry. It’s mostly rice, beans, pasta, oats, pancake mix, salt, and other spices in vacuum-sealed Mylar bags. Along with everything else you see, it’s about two-thirds of the way gone now, too. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Alex shifted her weight to one leg and folded her arms. “You said a family of four—but there’s more than four people living here.”
Michelle nodded. “That’s a large part of the problem. We’ve been using it to feed a half-dozen mouths for almost a year now. And since Christian decided to sublet, it’s become a mouth for every day of the week.�
�
As Alex glanced right, her headlamp’s beam met with a mound of shiny objects in a plastic container on the floor. She tiptoed over, knelt and palmed a small glass bottle, then held it over her head so Michelle could see. “What’s this?”
“A mini bottle of liquor,” replied Michelle. “They’re called airplane bottles. All those containers over there are full of them.”
“Liquor?”
“Yes. Alcohol. The kind you drink.”
Alex nodded, but appeared mystified while studying the bottle and its markings. “We make our own alcohol at home,” she said. “We don’t drink it, though. We use it for medicine and to clean with. Mom says it kills brain cells.”
Michelle chuckled. “She’s right. It does.”
“Why do you have so many?”
“My husband practically hoarded those things. He said one day they’d be incredibly valuable. We could use them for currency or even barter them.”
“What’s barter?”
“Trade,” Michelle replied. “They have market value, and we can trade them for things we need. Liquor is worth almost as much as ammunition right now—I dare say, it’s probably worth more.”
“I guess I don’t understand why they’re worth so much,” Alex said, her brow furrowed. She placed the bottle back into the box and stood, still eyeballing them.
“Killing brain cells has always been a lucrative commodity,” Michelle said lightheartedly. “Quite honestly, as stressful as it’s been around here, I’ve been considering using those bottles for something else other than their trade value.”
Alex nodded, giggled, and sauntered back over to Michelle. “I hope I haven’t been eating too much of your food since being here.”
“We took you in willingly, Alex. Providing you room and board was my decision. It’s no trouble.”
The young girl looked relieved. “Okay, good. I’ve been trying hard not to gorge—but that oatmeal you have tastes so good. The maple and brown sugar one is my new favorite.”
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