Surviving the Day (8 page)

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Interlude: Washington, D.C.

Beneath the White House

“If it wasn't the Chinese and it wasn't the Russians and it wasn't Iran or North Korea, then who the hell sent the EMP?!?” The President looked around the conference table. “And how the hell did it knock out our backup power? We're supposed to be hardened against that, right?”

“Yes sir,” answered a bedecked older man, resplendent in a White Navy uniform and sporting an impressive white beard. All he needed was fifty pounds and a red suit and he'd have kids lining up to sit on his lap to ask for toys. “All the bunker systems run independent of the local grid and are caged and grounded against electromagnetic interference.”

“Well it sure didn't work, did it?” asked the President, disgusted. He looked around the table again, but no one answered the rhetorical question. “At least I got some exercise on all those bloody stairs,” he said. “Admiral, any word on the status of the Navy?” he asked the bearded man.

“No sir, communications are out, apparently affected by the EMP as well. I've ordered a network of spotlight relays put up from here to Anacostia, and I've sent runners to locate working vehicles. Even our hardened Humvees were knocked out.”

“So we could be under invasion, nukes or biological weapons could be dropping on our citizens right now, and we wouldn't know it?”

“Sir,” interrupted a man dressed in an impeccable suit, “We don't know if the rest of the nation was affected. It's possible that this is local to the Eastern seaboard.”

“Not damn likely, Allen,” said the President. “I think something would have gotten to us by now if it was.”

“What I don't understand,” said the Admiral, “is why we haven't heard from any subs. We have patrollers off the coast equipped with the Flying Fish.” A couple of the people around the table looked a question at him. “The Flying Fish,” he explained, “is our newest sub-launched drone, similar to a Predator. It can be expelled in a missile tube. It rises to the surface, the tube splits and a launch platform rises up. The Fish takes off with rocket assist and has nearly the same range as a Predator.”

“So why does it surprise you?” asked Allen.

“Because an EMP can't affect a submarine that’s submerged,” answered the Admiral. “It can't—the science just doesn't work. The effect changes when it hits a conductor like salt water, and the hull is a natural Faraday cage. So when the submarine loses all communications, it's supposed to launch the Flying Fish, re-establish comms by using it as a relay, or remote pilot to the nearest Navy facility and await local communications. It's been six hours since the event—plenty of time for a Fish to show up.”

“But we haven't even heard from any of the teams we've sent out,” protested a young-looking woman. A tiny headset flopped around next to her ear. “I haven't heard from any of my teams! Not even the ones stationed above!”

“Maybe we should run wires and tin cans,” said the President. “I assume soup cans aren't subject to EMP effects?” No one laughed, but one man standing in the corner nodded his head and gestured at the young woman. She walked over and he whispered to her.

“That might actually work, Mr. President,” she said.

“Soup cans?!” asked the President, incredulously, turning to the Secret Service agents. The woman gestured to the young man.

“Not exactly, Mr. President,” the man replied. “We might have some field telephones somewhere in storage. They work without any electronics, called 'sound-powered'. The EE dash eight was in use up until the seventies.”

“Right,” said the President. “What's your name?”

“Agent Walker,” said the man.

“You're my new head of communications. Work with the Admiral to get long range and short range comms working.” He turned to a huge fat man in a green uniform with general's stripes. “General? Make this man a Colonel, full bird, or higher if you think he needs it. Put him in charge of communications.” He turned back to Agent Walker. “You're still Secret Service son,” he told him, “but you're also a commissioned officer now.”

Agent walker saluted smartly, a clear sign he'd served before. “Yes, sir, Mr. President!” he said.

The Admiral motioned to Colonel Walker and a Navy adjutant sitting in a chair in the back of the room.

“Get going on it, Hanson. And Walker?”

“Yes sir?”

“Don't let the American People down!”

The new Colonel Walker saluted again. He could hear the Capital Letters when the Admiral spoke. “Aye, aye!” he said.

The Admiral nodded. “Good, a former Navy man.” Walker smiled and nodded. “Well, hop to it, dammit, don't stand there like a damn pollywog!” Colonel Walker and Hanson exited the room, talking in hushed tones.

“Well, that's a decent start,” said the President. The group nodded in agreement, then looked slightly alarmed as the lanterns they were using flickered, dimmed, then went out, plunging the room into darkness.

“Dammit!!” yelled the President.

—————

Interlude: Boreling Empire: Team Zeke

Trewlip laughed as he watched the so-called “leader of the world” flap his hands over his head like a frightened bridling. He added a caption above his head that said, “Leader of Earth”.

“Hey, check it out!” he said over Zeke-net—the private chat channel reserved by Team Zeke and a few of their groupies. They’d become very popular after winning the Pay to Play first round, and there were hangers-on of all ages wanting to become friends with them.

And grab some of their winnings.

One particularly ambitious sales-creep had discovered that Trewlip was a member, and his printer had started popping out samples of crap so often that he had to spend his share on a top-of-the-line auto-recycler plus printer.

“The Plus is for the Blocking Features!”

“Hey Trew!” said Haugfer over Zeke-net, “You just edged out that crazy war zone in China!” Haugfer pronounced it more like “Crynar” than “China”, his mouth unable to make the proper sounds. Trewlip checked the stats.

“Over five hundred million,” he said. “We still need to top a billion to get another prize, though,” he added.

“We have fifty zombies left,” said Haugfer, referring to the allocation of bio-infesters given to Team Zeke after their first win. “We should use those for something.”

“There's no big concentrations of humans right now that I can find,” said Trewlip. “Did anyone think to buy an auto-surfer?”

“Nope,” said Haugfer. “We have to search the channels the old fashioned way.”

“Hey I got it!” said Trewlip. “Let's task these blasted groupies with finding a good place to use them.”

“Yeah, might as well use 'em up while we got 'em,” agreed Haugfer.

Trewlip put out a call on the Zeke-Fans channel and set a reminder to check back.

“Hey doglards, check this out!” The voice was another team member, Caredvich Swapjwa. The picture wasn't her though; it was a first-person view of a room with small humans.

“How did you afford a drone?” asked Haugfer.

“Not everyone spent their winnings on stim sticks and fancy printers,” said Caredvich. “I bought a timeshare on a drone controller.”

“Aww man! I would love to afford a drone,” said Haugfer.

“Look at the counter, Haug,” said Trewlip.

“That can't be right,” he said. “Seven hundred twenty-two?”

“Now seven hundred twenty-four,” said Caredvich. “I found the perfect spot for a rampage.”

Trewlip and Haugfer watched the impressive view as Caredvich slaughtered the humans.

—————

Interlude: Boreling Empire: Plannel 6

A green flash alert appeared on the monitor that Grodge the Merciful was using to work on the bio-creature problem. He almost hit the button that would send it down the line to Corbig, but decided instead to take a look. It was a drone kill that was very high. Grodge scratched his scalp with both thumbs. He called up the records list on another view and scrolled down the list.

“Whoever invented this list should have made it easier to sort. Who cares about chronology?” he muttered as he spun through the list, looking for a particular incident.

“Ah yes, here it is,” he said to himself. “Season four, cycle two hundred sixteen.” Grodge read the listing. It was the record for kills by a single drone controller in a single session. Eight hundred sixteen kills. The next closest was only three hundred seventy. This new one had already shattered the second place standing and was well on its way to breaking the record.

He added the feed, then hesitated. Should he send an upper alert? If he did, and whoever was manning the alerts thought it worthy, he'd gain instant credibility and even points of forgiveness if he missed one in the future. He'd never done it except in simulations at the Boreling School of Apocalyptic Journalism.

Grodge pushed the button. He called over his sleeping doglard and picked it up. Stroking it across the scalp, he waited and watched the monitor, nervous.

The green alert changed to green and yellow, blocks chasing each other in a circle. The feed was temporarily locked as someone up the chain looked at it. He figured Pactain the Virulent was already asleep, so who was looking at the feed? Was it his block or did someone else manage to flag it before him?

A tiny version of the blocking notice appeared on his main monitor right in the middle, on top of everything.

“It's my block!” he thought, now more nervous than before. He watched the block like a doglard watches a food bowl being unwrapped.

The swirling block stopped, blinked, then turned green.

Grodge let out a breath and held his doglard in front of his face.

“Yahoo!” he yelled. “My first block went through!”

It probably meant a bonus! It certainly meant that his name would actually appear in the credits of today's showings, not that anyone ever viewed the Credits Channel.

Grodge set down his doglard and looked at the monitors on the right. Sure enough, the view in the lower right changed to the drone, with a tally of kills and a countdown added to the record. He looked back at the viewership. It fell a couple, was steady for a minute, then began to rise as more kills were registered. Usually the count fell this late at night, but it was going up and up.

Anxiously, Grodge looked at who might be up for a Megammercial. They never played at night, but if the viewership got high enough, he might be able to slip one in. He skimmed through the sponsor lists. Chewy Drinks and Stim Sticks were probably out, but there were always a few wannabes that would like a cheaper Megammercial if they could swing it.

“Here's one,” said Grodge. “The Newline Get-It-Now Credit Company with that really annoying actor from the Blazing Guns Adventure Team Show. They're on the Megammercial Lottery and Auction List.” Grodge set the parameters for the Megammercial—eight hundred kills, and sent the auto-auction price to Newline.

If this worked, it would definitely get him noticed by upper management, and if luck would have it, noticed by someone other than Pactain the Doglard.

Pactain the Doglard.

He laughed loudly as his own joke.

“Hilarious!”

Grodge watched his four-screen monitor feed, willing the Megammercial to appear, his assigned task to reduce bio-creature deaths forgotten.

—————

Joe

There were two bodies in the yard when I went in after Erin. That accounts for the two shots I'd heard.

One of them was just a little kid.

I wanted to say something to her, let her know it was okay. But then I might just be bringing up something she'd rather forget. I know I would rather forget it. When my damn vest got caught on the fence, she cheered up, but I was pretty frightened. I could see zombies coming into the yard, and it would be just a matter of time before a nice tall one got itself a man-kabob unless I could get down.

But it worked out okay.

Erin headed out, opening the gate cautiously. I nodded to myself.

Smart girl.

But I should be on point. I went out the gate and moved ahead of her. We really should be moving from cover to cover, but with zombies—you never know. One of them might be sitting in a convertible, just waiting for you to sneak past. So I stuck to the street. I turned left, back to the street we were going down before detouring into that back yard.

“Joe!” called Erin in a low voice. I looked back. “Not that way! Probably zombies still going into that backyard,” she said. “They might see you and change direction.”

“Right,” I agreed.

She's the zombie expert.

I turned right and moved down the street, feeling terribly exposed. I really didn't like this “walking in the street” stuff. I motioned for Erin to move up beside me. “How about we cut through backyards? I don't like being so exposed in the street like this.”

“Okay,” said Erin, looking at the houses. “How about that one?” she said, pointing at a little house with a big palm tree in the front and a short white picket fence. “You probably won't get stuck on that one.” I turned my head and glared at her with my fiercest look, but her eyes were dancing with remembered laughter. I smiled and turned back, angling for the house she’d been pointing at.

I stepped over the fence and continued on into the backyard, looking quickly around corners, my gun leading the way. The next backyard had a tall stucco fence, so I looked around for something to stand on. There was a picnic table that looked sturdy enough, so I went to one end and grabbed it, then looked expectantly at Erin. She didn't say anything, just walked over and grabbed the other end. We carried it to the fence and she started to step up, but I held up my hand.

“Point man first,” I said. I looked over the fence and didn't see any immediate danger. I looked at Erin and gave a thumbs-up. She returned the gesture and I hopped on top of the fence while she climbed onto the table.

I felt a hammer slam into my chest, barely noticing the boom of a gunshot as I fell backward.