If God Doesn't Show

by R. Thomas Riley

  The president stared at Thaddeus for a long moment, and then spoke into the SAT phone. “Go.” A sheaf of papers rested in his lap. A plastic privacy divider could be lifted like a laptop’s lid, and this smoked, plastic piece prevented Thaddeus from seeing what was on the papers. “Alpha, Mark, X, 2-9Black, November 79800,” Wendell read off the sheet. “Confirm and acknowledge.”

  The phone had rang every few minutes ever since Woodard opened the case, and Thaddeus and the others were extremely nervous every time the president read off the letters and numbers. They all knew what was happening. Confirms and the reconfirms. Wendell was initiating the process to bring the nation’s nuclear arsenal to full alert. Knowing nukes were already launched, and America hadn’t been the first to do so, everyone else appeared eager to contribute.

  Sweat poured off Wendell as he held the phone to his ear and recited yet another sequence of numbers from the paper in his lap. Melissa leaned over with a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. He smiled his thanks, but the smile didn’t travel to his eyes, Thaddeus noticed.

  The helicopter touched down with a slight bump, and he turned his attention outside. Air Force One was a few hundred feet in front of them, waiting to pick up the president and the others. Thaddeus could see the engines were turning, and it brought him some hope. He glanced over at Jossart. The man nodded his readiness.

  Archer waited for a break in the president’s conversation. “I’m leaving Wells with you, Mr. President. Jossart and I will recon the area, ensure it’s safe for you, and then we get out of here.”

  With that, Thaddeus looked forward. “Veleska, keep the bird hot, just in case.”

  Carling asked, “Neil, what’s with the phone?”

  “Archer’s?”

  “Yes. I noticed he carries the thing religiously…” Realization lit up her face. “It’s that phone?”

  Wendell nodded gravely. “Yes, it’s… it was…his daughter’s phone.”

  * * *

  Keeping low, Archer and Jossart rushed away from beneath the whirring blades. They took up a position by an abandoned cargo transport. The suitcases and bags, previously in the trailers, were now strewn about the tarmac, and some of the bags had come open. The driver was dead, but Archer checked him anyways. His fingers came back covered with the weird black dust. Tire marks zigzagged all over the tarmac.

  “Looks like he went on a joyride,” Jossart said.

  Archer moved to the front of the trolley and noticed something strange. He bent down and ran a finger across the grill. It came back tacky. “He was running people over.”

  Mingled with the drying blood and hair, bits of plastic were also apparent. Archer stood back up and looked out at the runway. “It strike you as funny we’re not hearing any planes?”

  “You’re right,” Jossart said, glancing up into the sky and shielding his eyes with a hand. The sky was empty. “Maybe they managed to get the planes out of the air. Could be a no-fly in effect, like after 9/11?”

  “There’d still be planes needing to land, though,” Archer insisted. He checked his watch. “It’s only been about fifty minutes since everything started happening.”

  “Oh crap.”

  “What?”

  “Some of those fires we passed over…well, they looked like crash sites, but I dismissed that as impossible.”

  Something moved, and Archer’s caught it just at the corner of his vision. He whirled and trained his weapon to his right.

  Jossart followed suit. “What is it?”

  “Not sure. Thought I caught some movement.”

  Archer motioned for Jossart to provide covering fire from his position, if needed. He crouched and rushed over to a fuel truck on the far side of the tarmac in an attempt to flank whatever he’d seen. He came around the side of the fuel truck at a run and skidded to a stop. A woman stared back at him. Cradled protectively in her arms, two small children, a boy and a girl, peered out. The children appeared to be twins and about five years old. Shivering, the woman glanced fearfully at Archer.

  He held up his gun and said, in as soothing a tone as he could, “Hey, it’s all right, now. You’re safe. I’m a cop.” He pointed at the badge at his belt.

  “So was the last guy, and he killed my husband.”

  Archer saw the gun too late. As the woman raised the weapon, he dove to the ground. He hissed in pain as the hot concrete bit into his knees and palms. The bullets whined close to his head as he frantically rolled beneath the fuel truck. Bits of tarmac careened off his forehead and stung the breath from him.

  Jossart didn’t open fire. It was too risky with the fuel truck in the way. “Archer!”

  “Hold your fire! It’s a woman and some kids.” To the woman, Archer said, “Seriously, we’re good guys. Keep the gun even—just don’t shoot at us anymore.” When the woman didn’t respond, he attempted a different tactic, “Now, tell us what happened.” Mentally, he recalled what the gun looked like. He was fairly certain it’d been a Glock, and if it were police issue, it would be a mag of fifteen rounds. He counted the shots. She’d fired at least ten at him as he rolled. Or was it twelve?

  He peered beneath the truck in an attempt to see what she was doing, and found she pointed the pistol right at him. The pistol wavered in her hands, and he could see the hesitation in her eyes.

  “My name’s Thaddeus Archer. I’m a Park Policeman. Right over there, in that helicopter—see it? The President of the United States is in there. We’re the good guys.”

  “Did you see them?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “The mercenaries.”

  “Mercenaries?”

  “They were dressed like National Guard,” the woman said. “The mercenaries turned on the Guardsmen and killed them. We—my family and I—were flying from Galveston when all this weird stuff started happening. My husband landed our plane here. They killed him.” She choked back a sob and struggled on. “They just killed him. Didn’t even say anything—just shot him right in front of us.”

  “Archer!” Wells shouted.

  “We’re OK,” Jossart said. “Just a misunderstanding. We’re working on it.”

  Thaddeus stiffened as he caught a glint coming off one of the far buildings. He knew what it was. There was no mistaking it. He resisted the urge to look directly at the flash of light, trying not to give any indication he’d seen it.

  “Jossart, we’ve got company. Ten o’clock. Sniper.”

  The woman gasped as she heard Archer. “Oh no. It’s them!”

  “Easy now,” he said. “He’s on my side. You’re out of the line of fire. I want you to follow Officer Jossart’s instructions. He’ll lead you to somewhere safe. OK?”

  Once the woman and her two children were at a safe distance, Archer tried to raise anyone on Air Force One. This time he got a response.

  “Identify yourself,” came the harsh reply. It was so clear, it startled him for a second.

  “Park Police—Thaddeus Archer. I’ve got some friendlies here that’d like to come aboard.”

  “Anybody from Blackwater with you?”

  The question took Archer by surprise. It took him a few seconds to place where he’d heard ‘Blackwater’ before. Contractors was the politically correct term. Mercenaries was the not so popular one.

  “There may be someone over on the far side on one of the buildings.”

  “That’s one of them,” the voice agreed. “Name’s PFC Andy Hurt—Army National Guard. We can’t extract the president until the threat is eliminated. Much obliged if you’d take care of that one out there.”

  Archer smiled. Who said ‘obliged’ these days? “Consider it done.”

  He let Sam and the others know what was going on. Sam decided to lift the chopper off and fly to a neutral section of the airport as Wells, Jossart, and Archer dealt with the possible rouge sniper.

  * * *

  Archer and Wells slid from wreckage to body to abandoned truck. Just another war zone in the United States. Wells spotte
d the man crouching with a rifle fixed on Air Force One, and he gestured to Archer to divide and conquer. Archer saw Wells reach the man first, as if he couldn’t wait to catch him.

  “Hi there,” Wells greeted, shoving the pistol’s muzzle painfully into the back of the man’s ear. “Thought you contractors were trained better than this.” He chuckled. “Now, get up slowly, play nice, and maybe I won’t end you right here.”

  The mercenary slowly gained his feet and raised his hands in the air. He turned and faced Wells, then broke out into a wide grin. “Well, I’ll be.”

  Wells did a double take and started to lower his weapon, then caught himself. “Travis Muldoon.” There wasn’t any warmth in his tone. “What are the chances I’d find you in the middle of this shitstorm?”

  “You still feeling sore about Fallujah? That was business—nothing personal.”

  “You left us to die,” Wells said with barely contained rage.

  “Easy now,” Archer called as he gained the roof. “You two know each other?”

  “You could say that,” Travis replied.

  “We were in Iraq together,” Wells said. “There was a safe house raided, and the marines found some contraband hidden in the floor—”

  “A cool eight million in crisp hundreds,” Travis said. “All we had to do was split it and keep our mouths shut.”

  “My unit and I saw things differently. We confiscated the money, and were in the process of transporting it back to headquarters, when Travis here tipped off the local insurgents and they attacked us.”

  “I just told them to detain you. They weren’t supposed to use friggin’ RPG’s!”

  “But, they did!”

  “Is there anyone else?” Archer asked Travis. When Travis shook his head, Archer said into his radio, “Sam, we’re clear here. Get the president on the plane.”

  “Where’s the rest of your crew?” Wells asked. “You creeps don’t usually work alone.”

  “Things got messy.”

  “I’ll say,” Archer said. “Probably gonna get a lot worse.”

  Airport, Air Force One

  As soon as Sam received the all clear from Archer, she sat the helicopter down. A Guardsman disembarked Air Force One and rushed over, stuttering to a halt as he saw the president emerge.

  “M-M-Mr. President,” the young Private First Class Hurt stammered, saluting Wendell. In the process, the poor, nervous soldier almost lost his rifle.

  As he scrambled to keep from dropping the weapon, Wendell smiled good-naturedly. “Good to see a friendly face, PFC Hurt. Who’s in charge here? Where’s my service detail?”

  “I, uh, I guess I’m in charge,” Hurt managed. “The rest of my unit…they didn’t make it, sir. The plane was abandoned when we showed up. We were traveling with some Blackwater guys, and things kinda got complicated.” It was obvious Hurt didn’t wish to elaborate.

  Sam kept the helicopter running. After securing the door, she strolled over. She kept her pistol discreetly at her thigh and surveyed the horizon. This was too easy. For some reason, she felt getting to the plane should be harder, like they were missing something. The feeling was completely irrational, but it was with her all the same. It clung about her like an ill-fitting shirt. She paced and unconsciously tapped the gun against her thigh, while looking over to where Archer and the other men disappeared. The steady roar of the plane’s engines, along with the chopper’s, soothed her a bit, but not much. Something wasn’t right. The feeling wouldn’t leave her.

  A whisper on the breeze. She whirled and looked behind her, certain someone or something was right there. The whisper came again.

  Sammmmm...

  “What the?” She’d heard the voice before, but she couldn’t place it.

  Sammmmm…Surrender. There is no hope of resisting the Old One. He rises…He is Alllll…

  The radio crackled to life. “Sam, we’re clear here. Get the president on the plane.”

  To Wendell, she said, “No offense, but let’s get out of the open.”

  She started to ask if anyone had heard the voice, but resisted. No, it was more like she wasn’t able to give voice to the question, she realized. A sensation flitted through her head, unpleasant and pleasant all at the same time.

  He is coming…

  They walked over to the plane. “Can you fly this?” Secretary Carling spoke up as they started up the staircase.

  Sam smiled and nodded confidently. “I’ve got a thousand hours. Not in this particular model, but close enough.” However, she failed to mention those hours were all in a simulator. Sam knew the information wouldn’t help lighten their mood. She whispered under her breath, “You can do this. Piece of cake.”

  Practically every American had an idea of what the interior of Air Force One looked like from movies and TV, but none of that did any justice to the real thing. “Oh, wow.” Sam said as she stepped aboard.

  Woodard shoved past her and headed for the main cabin, carefully placing the suitcase on the mahogany conference table. Next to it, he arranged the playbook for easy reference. Satisfied all was in its proper place, he relaxed, but only slightly. He moved to sit down, but caught himself at the last moment, grimacing as he saw the pile of ash on the chair. He took in the entire room and gasped. “Sweet Moses!”

  Body parts decorated the ceiling—dried, tacky blood the only substance holding them precariously in place. It looked like someone took a weed whacker, bathed in blood, to the room. The black ash was thick on the walls and floor. When Woodard turned to look back at the doorway, he could see his footprints smeared in the muck.

  Wendell paused in the doorway. “Well, it’s going to cost the taxpayers to get this cleaned.” His joke sounded uneasy.

  Woodard looked disgusted as he checked to ensure the next room was safe. Sam thought he seemed rather soft for a major in the military. Wouldn’t he be used to seeing the aftermath of war and the carnage it brought? Sam gave the room only the briefest of glances, but it was imprinted in her mind like a tattoo one regretted. It was funny how the mind worked. How one forgot the things one wanted to remember, and remembered (clearly, in stark, haunting Technicolor glory) the things one wanted to forget with all one’s being.

  Behold his handiwork…

  This time, she did turn, and found Hurt directly behind her. “You heard that… Tell me you heard that?” she pleaded.

  “What?”

  “That voice. Are you religious, Hurt?”

  “What?”

  If he said ‘What’ one more time… She struggled to maintain the fury threatening to overwhelm her. “Are you religious?”

  “Used to be.”

  “I’ve got this feeling we haven’t seen anything yet,” Sam muttered. “Something bad is coming.” She turned and stalked out. “Want to tag along?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but she knew he’d follow. The door to the cockpit was closed. Sam paused and lightly touched the handle, glancing back at Hurt. He shrugged his sympathy. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered and pushed the lever inwards. The door gave way with a soft click.

  Runway 7

  Archer ordered the whole group to start back to Air Force One and the chopper. Wells relieved Travis of his gun and pushed him ahead of them.

  Archer kept his gaze fixed on Travis, but a strange flicker of light caught his attention. He sighted movement in his peripheral vision, and glanced up as something darkened the sky above them. It was like a cloud passing over the sun, but Thaddeus realized it was no cloud. The creature wavered in and out of tangible existence. A black, smoky shape one moment—the next, a fully realized being.

  “What the—” Travis managed.

  The creature was bird-like, but that’s where any similarities to something of this world ended. The creature passed over them and, in the draft made by its inky wings, a carrion stench drifted. It extended its snake-like neck and unleashed a scream. The men slapped their hands to their ears to ward off the sonic assault. Peering into the swirling mass, Th
addeus could just make out internal organs. It struck him, then, the creature was somehow not fully in this world. Like a weak radio signal, the body fluttered in and out of focus.

  “It’s from the island,” Jossart cried out. “It has to be!”

  “What’s he talking about?” Travis scoffed.

  “We need to go,” Thaddeus said, his voice low and tense. “No sudden movements.”

  Wells cursed as the creature changed directions and started towards Air Force One.

  Thaddeus got on the radio. “Sam, something’s headed in your direction. Get out of here. I repeat, get out of here!”

  Archer felt the air contract around him, as if he were in a pressurized cabin. He dove to the right as the creature filled the space where he’d been just a second before. Jossart screamed as the talons pierced his shoulder. With a sickening crunch, the talons locked in place, and all Archer saw were the man’s dangling legs as he was lifted from sight. A few seconds later, a shoe plopped to the tarmac in front of him. He glanced up and traced the area with his weapon. It was as if the creature vanished back to wherever it came from.

  Something caught Thaddeus’s eye. At first glance, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. The air above him seemed to shimmer in a circular pattern and, for a brief second, Archer could see into the swirling mass. Vertigo almost overtook him, as the vortex tried to suck him towards it. He pried his attention away and the sensation vanished.

  The swirling mass vomited a figure onto the tarmac. It roared and launched itself through the air at Wells. He managed to raise his weapon and fire rapidly at the creature. The bullets had no effect on the thing, merely passing through the smoky form. However, when the creature collided with Wells, it was certainly tangible enough. Archer trained his weapon on the creature, but held his fire for fear of hitting Wells. As the two struggled, the creature began to morph into something more concrete. Archer cursed as he began to recognize what the creature was. It resembled a gorilla, but its fur wasn’t black. It was a deep purple, and intermingled amongst the fur, Archer could see razor sharp scales. The creature had Wells pinned to the ground by his shoulders. A tail sprouted from the thing’s back, and the appendage whipped forward and impaled Wells, silencing his screams like flicking off a switch.