She stood up and exited the room, careful to not make a sound. The mid-afternoon sun seeped in through the cracks between the drawn shades and the windowsill, illuminating a hundred dancing specks of dust in its willowy shafts of light. Hunger pangs twisted her stomach in knots. She took no pleasure whatsoever in the thought of devouring yet another tray of frozen macaroni and cheese, but since her husband had neglected to stop at the grocery store before they arrived in this god-awful place, it would have to do. She glanced one more time at her daughter, shook her head, and went into the kitchen.
The loud whoop-whoop-whoop of a low-flying helicopter shook the house. She covered her ears and peeked around the doorjamb. Shelly was still asleep. I swear, if you wake her again, I’ll…she thought, and then sighed. I’ll what? Scold them? There’s nothing I can do. She opened the freezer door and took out a package. She removed the thin, rock-hard tray from its box, tore off the plastic coating, and tossed it into the microwave.
“It’s for the best,” Tom had said, and Allison had reluctantly agreed. She’d seen the violence escalate all around her, both on television and in their usually quiet neighborhood, and the idea of military protection seemed logical. That was before actually experiencing it, however. The tiny, one-bedroom town house in Fort Meyer they now lived in held none of the creature comforts of home. Those were what she missed more than anything: her favorite bathrobe, her felt-padded rocking chair, and the king-sized bed dressed in satin sheets were all left behind in their rush to get out. At times she felt she would go mad without them.
Don’t let it get to you, she thought. When all of this is over and things get back to normal, you’ll have a nice, hot bubble bath and wash the badness away.
Part of her wasn’t so sure of this, and Tom’s state of mind was a big part of it. He’d grown increasingly distant over the past few weeks. When he was home—which wasn’t often—there were times he wouldn’t speak a word to either Shelly or her. He simply lingered on the back porch of the town house in silence, with the door locked behind him. Sometimes she heard him speaking aloud back there, his head dipping up and down like a bobble-head, while his cell phone, which never used to be out of his sight, rested quietly on the kitchen table. She didn’t think she’d heard it so much as ring in a long time. She started to fear for his sanity. The job, and the hours he put in, weren’t healthy for a man his age.
He’d started to lose weight, as well. A lot of weight. The ample stomach she used to love resting her head on at night had shrunken so much that she’d had to take in his trousers on three different occasions. He looked emaciated; his cheeks became sunken and flaps of loose flesh dangled off his arms. This sudden weight loss struck her as odd, especially considering that he always seemed to be eating, devouring every meal as if it were his last. It has to be the stress, she reasoned. That has to be it. He’s got a lot of responsibility on his shoulders.
She leaned against the counter, squeezed her eyes shut, and remembered the better days: the day she met Tom, when Allison was eighteen and he was forty, at a political rally sponsored by her father; their honeymoon in the Keys four years later, and the feel of the sand beneath her feet as she strolled along the beach with the man who would keep her safe for the rest of her life; the day Shelly was born, when she first looked into the baby’s striking blue eyes and knew this child instantly loved her more than anyone else. These memories were the only things that could take away the shadow of doubt lingering over her.
The microwave beeped and Allison removed the steaming hot tray. She devoured her food, feeling at least a little better when the last tasteless bite slid down her throat. She tossed the container in the trash afterwards, and another helicopter whooshed overhead. She heard Shelly rustle in the other room. This time Allison didn’t curse the noise. Instead, she went to check on her daughter. The sight of her cherubic little face would lift her spirits even more.
Someone rapped on the front door. “Tom!” she exclaimed. “You’re home early!” The excitement of seeing her husband for the first time in days made her skip across the room like a schoolgirl. She threw the door open.
When she saw who stood on the rickety front steps, her expression soured.
“You.”
* * *
Anger welled up inside Tom as he walked through Fort Meyer. Soldiers bustled about, loading boxes of supplies and weapons into a legion of Chinooks and Armored Personnel Carriers. The busy men and women looked as if they were trying to imitate the statue atop the Iwo Jima memorial, which on a clear day was visible in the distance outside the front gate. They were mobilizing, getting ready to evacuate the base despite the fact that this was against his direct orders. He wanted to scream at them, to yell out, “Stop, I didn’t consent to this,” but the ethereal comprehension that tickled the base of his spinal column forced his mouth shut. He would get his own way, it said, but not by conventional means.
There’s more than one way to eviscerate a cat, that knowledge stated. The image that came to his mind next made him laugh.
He crossed into the base’s residential sector, where there was no commotion. All of the quaint little houses seemed calm, though he could practically feel the anxious energy of those who occupied them. They were women and children mostly, sitting in cramped quarters and waiting with bated breath for the moment their partners would stroll through the door to proclaim that all was well with the world. Tom understood that none of that would ever come to pass. A sensation akin to pride caused his eyes to well with tears. I did this. The statement wasn’t a complete fact, yet he knew that he’d played his part with aplomb. He’d spread the remaining troops of every military faction across the country, thinning out their numbers to the point that any line of demarcation they could now form would resemble nothing but a faded smudge.
He marched down his street and up the footpath toward his temporary home. His otherworldly confidence disappeared, leaving him stranded, afraid and alone with his human doubt. Allison and Shelly would be waiting inside for him, a pair of pure faces he couldn’t stomach any longer. They made him feel dreadful, made him feel sorry for himself. They would never understand his actions should they ever find out, never comprehend the purpose and magnitude of the plan. A part of him still wanted to come clean, however, and lay the truth down before them. This fraction wished to beg for mercy and absolution.
You know what would happen, were you to do that, the knowledge said. Put these impure thoughts out of your head. Now.
Tom nodded. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
He put on a cheerful disguise and barged through the front door. “Honey, I’m home!” he bellowed. The masquerade faded when he walked into the kitchen. Allison sat at the table, looking like someone just shot the family dog. Shelly bounced in her lap, oblivious.
“Hey,” said Allison with a frown.
“Daddy!” yelped Shelly.
“Hello, baby girl,” he said with a smile, passing his wife a sideways glance. “That wasn’t a very enthusiastic hello.”
Allison nudged her head in the direction of the living room. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“Who?”
“He’s got no hair!” proclaimed Shelly.
Allison grimaced. “Yup. It’s you-know-who.”
Tom squinted, shook his head, and walked past his family into the adjacent room, stopping only to stroke Shelly’s curly brown locks. She giggled again, but as usual, the sound did nothing to stave off the onset of irritation. Allison looked up at him gravely and he returned the gesture. Dread filling his soul, he bit his tongue and headed for the confrontation.
A man he thought he’d never see again was in the family room, sitting in the dusty, burlap-covered recliner beside a cot covered with rumpled blankets. A newspaper lay sprawled over his lap. The light from the lamp beside him reflected off the top of his shaved and polished head. He’d obviously heard Tom enter the room (the slight twitch of his feet, propped up on the ottoman, confirmed this), but he didn’t look up. Instead h
e continued the guise of reading, going so far as to remove his tinted, silver-rimmed glasses and wipe them.
“Ahem,” Tom grunted.
“Hello, Thomas,” the man replied without looking up.
“It’s been a while, Carl.”
“Yes, it has.”
Tom felt hatred rise from his gut. He wanted to scream, to tell the short, bald bastard to get the fuck out of his house, but couldn’t. In all his years of public service, only one man had ever made Thomas Steinberg feel the kind of paralyzing anxiety he was now experiencing, and it wasn’t the Prime Minister of Britain, the Russian Premier, or even the Commander-In-Chief himself. No, that sensation was reserved for Carl Pendergrass, and Carl Pendergrass alone.
His rival folded the newspaper and tossed it on the coffee table, then swung his skinny legs off the ottoman with a grunt and stood up. It never ceased to amaze Tom how a man of this stature, five-foot-four and thin as a rail, could seem so indelibly significant by contrast. The man exuded confidence and displayed no pretenses. His expression seemed carved from granite, as if he never had anything to hide. And he never smiled, not even the phony kind. This trait made Tom hate him a little bit more every time they collaborated.
“So,” said Tom, “why are you here?”
Pendergrass glared at him. “I’m doing my job.”
Tom glared back. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Yes, you’ve held down the fort, more or less.” The short man’s tenor dripped with sarcasm. “Can’t say you’ve done a fantastic job of it, but I suppose you did what you could. You needn’t worry about it any longer, however. I’m taking things over from here on out.”
“What? No. You can’t do that. The President hasn’t—”
“The President is gone, Thomas. So are Strickland and Carver and Brighton. They fell ill two weeks ago. I’m sure you know what happens next.”
“Yes, I have an idea. But how did you avoid it? You have been with them the whole time, supposedly.”
Pendergrass waved a hand at him. “It doesn’t matter how I escaped it, just that I did. It was a bad scene. After their conditions…deteriorated…I had Camp David razed. The Marine regiment who carried out my orders then transported me here. So now, dear friend, we can get back to work.”
Tom grinned. “You do realize that you have no power, don’t you, Carl? You walk into my house and talk to me like you’re calling the shots. You’re not. The President and Strickland are dead…unless you’ve lied to me about that. That makes me third in line. You’re nothing but the Defense Secretary. That means I’ve got the command, not you.”
“Not so,” replied Pendergrass. He never once flinched. “You’re grasping at the remnants of order, Thomas, and there is no order any longer. The old rules do not apply. Fear and respect are all that matter now.” One corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk. “I have that, not you.”
Tom opened his mouth, but shut it without saying a word and glanced over his shoulder. Shelly’s little head poked around the corner from the kitchen. Not now, his brain’s manager instructed. Not here.
Pendergrass went on without missing a beat. “This does not mean you’re going to be shut out, however. You will be involved…to a point. Do you understand?”
Tom nodded.
“Good.” He checked his watch. “Meet me at the north barracks in two hours. When you arrive, I’ll tell you what you need to know.”
With that, Pendergrass walked away. Tom watched him nod in Allison’s direction on his way through the kitchen. The front door slammed two seconds later.
Tom hung his head. I knew this would happen, he thought. Why couldn’t he have died with the rest of them?
His time will come, the comforting trespasser replied. Do not listen to his words. He possesses no power. He does not know what power is. But you do.
Tom lifted his eyes to the doorway. Allison stood there, holding Shelly in her arms. A look of sympathy crossed her face and he smiled at her. It seemed to take a great deal of effort for his young wife to return the gesture.
“Don’t worry, honey,” he said. He turned around and headed for the bedroom, His face glowing with a sinister sort of pride.
“We have everything under control.”
* * *
Tom arrived at the north barracks just as dusk began to wrap its ghostly hands around a once-bright day. The commotion inside the base had calmed by then, so much so that the place seemed deserted. A hundred feet away, the four Chinooks rested on the vast stretch of pavement in front of the hangar, preparing ready to depart. In the morning the order would come, this much he knew just from experience. He grunted and reached into his pockets, where his fingers were greeted by the handle of the wire clippers hidden there.
No, it won’t.
He whistled as he strode around the building. Just like his trip home earlier that day, he could sense the thoughts of those inside. These were the thoughts of soldiers, their bodies at rest but not their minds. Their emotions twisted together, forming a confused kaleidoscope of longing, excitement, and fear. He smiled as they surged through him. He kicked at the dirt with his loafers and kept his head down. No matter what Pendergrass would say, no matter what he tried, the feelings he now held were off-limits to him. The bastard could never take them—or his inner strength—away. No human could.
“Glad you could make it.”
Tom lifted his eyes. Pendergrass stood alone on the pathway between the mess hall and the garrison, his phone pressed to his ear. Tom felt a moment of confusion, seeing as every cellular network had collapsed weeks ago. He thought at first that Carl was pretending, attempting to make him feel insignificant by feigning a conversation. That assumption departed the moment he heard a crackle of electronic chatter. He frowned. Pendergrass never once looked at him. The light from an overhead street lamp gleamed off of his glossy dome. The way he stood, and the overzealousness of his constant nodding, screamed with mockery.
Despite this, Tom felt preternaturally calm.
He waited patiently while Pendergrass ended his conversation and snapped his phone shut. The little man closed his eyes and breathed in deep, like a high-diver readying to jump from the diving board. Still, he said nothing.
“Who was that?” asked Tom.
“No one you have to worry about.”
“Perhaps not, but it might have been helpful if I’d known what communications system you’ve been using. All of us in the real world have been running deaf and blind.”
Pendergrass lifted the phone and taunted him with it, wiggling the device in his face like a schoolyard bully. “Satellite phone. Undisclosed frequency. Emergency measures, Thomas, only to be used in disaster situations.”
“And what I’ve been trying to handle here isn’t considered a—”
“Get over yourself,” snapped Pendergrass. “You knew what you needed to know.”
Pendergrass crossed in front of him and leaned against the slatted garrison wall. The flash of anger he’d just displayed vanished and his defenses dropped. “It’s been a long day, Thomas. Shit, it’s been a long two months.”
With Carl’s moment of reflection, Tom’s brain was inundated with information. He saw Pendergrass in a state he’d never seen before: hesitant. He watched as the Defense Secretary ordered troops to shoot the President and Cabinet; listened as he made the decision to leave his family behind in the hellhole Camp David had become; observed the little man as he set the ball rolling on his contingency plan. Along with this, he sensed every thread of doubt and guilt Carl Pendergrass felt.
This uncertainty caused his confidence to waver and his decisiveness to be less than resolute. It was the break Tom needed to let him in, the flash of humanity that allowed him to understand what was about to happen.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“What?” said Pendergrass. He stiffened and Tom could see nothing more, but it didn’t matter. He’d seen enough to know what he had to do next.
“You brought me out here,
” said Tom, “to kill me?”
Pendergrass straightened and stepped away from the wall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Thomas. Are you going mad? I knew you were stre—”
“Shut up.”
Tom glared and took a menacing stride forward. Stop it, Thomas, the voice inside said. From above, the sound of a tussle arose.
“You shut the fuck up, too,” he replied, out loud. He cocked his head and listened for a reply. When none came, he turned back to Pendergrass. The man who had brought him out there to have him murdered had his hand in his pocket. He was fumbling around for something, and Tom knew what it was.
“That’s not going to do you any good,” he said with a laugh. “The three guys on the roof won’t be able to hear you. They were dead as of five seconds ago.” He tapped his finger on his temple. “Always think ahead, Carl. You taught me that.”
The eyes of his adversary glanced skyward, appearing nervous, unbelieving. His hands shook. Tom didn’t bother to follow his gaze. He knew what Pendergrass was starting to understand—that Tom meant business.
“What are you doing?” the little man asked.
“Setting things straight. There’s not going to be any getaway to some bunker in Colorado. And why is it always Colorado, anyway? Forget it, it doesn’t matter. The point is there will be no grand collection of brilliant men and women with childbearing hips waiting to be saved. You can’t hide, Carl. You can’t protect us. Not anymore.”
Pendergrass opened his mouth, shut it, and then his eyes shifted from left to right. He started to slide away and Tom, with quickness he never knew his aging and still slightly overweight body was capable of, leapt at him. He wrapped one hand around his throat and yanked the wire clippers from his coat pocket with the other. Pendergrass’s eyes bulged from his head while he gasped underneath the weight of Tom’s grip.
Tom’s grin widened as he plunged the clippers’ shearing edge up his enemy’s nose. Blood gushed from his nostrils as the cartilage between them snapped. Carl’s eyes rolled back, revealing their white undersides, and a liquid moan escaped his lips. Tom shoved again, forcing the clippers in up to their rubber handles. Pendergrass shook. A final crack sounded as the metal prongs broke into his brain cavity. Carl’s throat constricted and a stream of blood, phlegm, and bile erupted from his open mouth, splattering against Tom’s suit.