6:00 Hours: A Dystopian Novel (12 page)

“This can’t go on,” Robert said solemnly. “Michael, go downstairs and bring up all the reporters you can find. This ends now.”

6.

              Seven reporters crammed into Robert’s office and listened intently while he took all their questions by the light of his battery-operated desk lamp. Some had specific inquiries about the extent of the tsunami, some wanted to know what was happening in the tornado regions, but everyone was most interested in why no warning had been issued for the Emerald Coast. Robert kept his answers short and to the point. He did not mention anything about his meeting with the president, the call from Terrace, or the stranger who attacked Claire.

              “Kirk Baxter was in charge of the Emerald Coast office,” Robert said. “He did not issue a tsunami warning following the earthquake, and by the time I spoke to him, it was too late.”

              Robert was keenly aware of the reporters’ scribbling pens in the dimly-lit room. It was only a matter of time before the whole story blew up. Research would be done and Baxter’s connection to the President would be unearthed. Robert knew to expect an angry call from the President’s office. When the reporters ran out of questions, they hurriedly thanked him and rushed out of the room, nearly tripping over each other. Claire, who had been resting in her office, entered holding two paper cups of water.

              “You should drink some water, sir,” she advised. “You don’t want to get dehydrated.”

              “Thanks.”

              Robert took one of the cups and drank it in one mouthful. It was cold and felt icy against his teeth.

              “How did it go?” Claire asked.

              “Pretty well. I told them the truth. That Baxter was in charge of the Emerald Coast office.  Nothing more, nothing less. They can figure out the rest.”

              Michael came in, carrying a mug. He paused when he saw Robert with the paper cup, but Robert motioned for him to come forward.

              “I just brought you some coffee, sir, in case you were feeling tired.”

              “Thanks, Michael, I appreciate it.”

              As Michael set down the mug, the lights flickered. The three looked up, waiting breathlessly. The lights flickered a second time, and then came on. A faint buzz filled the room.

              “Hey! Look at that,” Robert exclaimed. “We’re back in business.”

              A cheer could be heard from the hallway as everyone rejoiced at the light’s return. Robert took a sip from his coffee mug, his insides warming up.

              “Have you heard from your family, sir?” Michael asked.

              “I heard from my son,” Robert said. “Our call got cut off when the power went down. Nothing from my daughter yet. What about you, Michael? You said you had family on the Ruby Coast?”

              “Yes, and they’re safe. They were worried that they would be heading into the tornadoes, but they just got some storms. They found a hotel with a tornado-safe basement, so even if more funnels drop, they’ll have somewhere safe to go.”

              “That’s great,” Claire interjected.

              “I need to call my wife,” Robert said, realizing she still didn’t know about Danny.

              He was about to pick up the phone when it suddenly rang, loudly. Everyone jumped a little. Claire looked concerned.

              “It could be the Vice President,” she said quietly.

              Robert nodded. His hand hovered over the phone.

              “Michael, will you call my wife and tell her our son is safe? Here, use my cell phone.”

              Robert held out the phone for Michael.

              “Her name is Elisa. Look in ‘Recents,’ if it’s easier.”

              “Right away,” Michael said, heading out the door.

              Claire and Robert were alone. Robert took a deep breath and picked up the office phone.

              “Director Morgan,” he said.

              “What the hell were you thinking?”

              Terrace’s voice was saturated with anger. There was something in his tone that deeply bothered Robert, and all his hesitation melted away. It was as if Terrace was speaking to a misbehaving child, and Robert would not be spoken to that way. He clenched his teeth.

              “Mr. Vice President.”

              “I was just watching the news, and all these stories are coming out where you confirm that Kirk Baxter was in charge of the Emerald Coast office, and did not issue the warning in time.”

              “That is correct.”

              “Goddamn it, you don’t get it, do you? Do you understand anything? You’ve made a terrible mistake, Robert,” Terrace said, his voice spiteful. “For your career, for ECAG, and for this nation.”

              “I really don’t see it that way, sir,” Robert said calmly. “The way I see it, I just gave the nation an opportunity to stand up for itself.”

              “You betrayed your President. You have tarnished his name.”

              “If anyone tarnished his name, it’s the President himself. If he did not hire Baxter for personal reasons, then he ultimately has nothing to fear. And if he did, well, he’d better be prepared to face the music.”

              “You’re naive, Robert. I hope you’re ready to vacate that office of yours. Never have I met somebody who understands
nothing
about politics.”

              “I understand it too well. It doesn’t mean I have to like it, or play the game dirty. My job is to protect people. Not people like you, Mr. Vice President, but people who are vulnerable and who can’t buy safety.”

              “You’re finished. Your career is over.”

              Robert could tell Terrace was floundering. His anger made him sound unhinged and thoughtless. Robert couldn’t help but smirk.

              “If you get rid of me, you’re pounding the last nail in the President’s political coffin. People will know you wanted to hide the truth. I’ll be a martyr. Is that what you want to happen?”

              Terrace was silent. Robert could hear him breathing - short, hoarse draws - and could almost feel the fury crackling through the phone line.

              “I didn’t think so. Have a good rest of your day, Mr. Vice President.”

              Robert hung up. He looked at Claire and raised his eyebrows, asking her what she thought. She broke into a smile and clapped her hands noiselessly, like she was at a golf match.

              “Well done, sir,” she said. “I couldn’t imagine you saying it any better than that.”

              “There will probably be some consequences,” Robert mused. “Funding cut or some other low-key jabs they’ll try to keep from the media. But I think we’re coming out of this relatively unscathed.”

              Robert stood and stretched, pulling one arm across his chest, and then the other.

             
Now if I only knew if Rachel was safe.

              Claire’s phone buzzed in her pocket. It reminded Robert of a bumblebee, like the ones in Claire’s hair. She answered the call.

              “Claire Doherty.”

              Robert could hear faint murmuring on the other end, and Claire’s lips parted slightly.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “My God. He’s right here. I’ll hand him over.”

Claire held out the phone. It almost looked like she had tears in her eyes.               

“Sir, it’s one of the pilots. He said he found your daughter.”

              Robert’s heart stopped beating for a moment. He grabbed the phone from Claire and pressed it to his ear.

              “Director Morgan speaking.”

              “Sir! I just wanted to tell you that we just picked up your daughter in Genoa!”

              The pilot yelled, his voice barely audible above the whir of the helicopter.

              “Is she ok? Can I talk to her?” Robert yelled back.

              There was a few moments of scuffling as the phone was handed over.

              “Daddy?”

              It was Rachel’s voice. Robert had to sit down. He put his hand on the desk to steady himself. He shut his eyes tightly, tears squeezing out. He could barely speak.

              “Sweetie? Are you ok?”

              “I’m ok, Dad. I hurt my hand a little, but the medic took care of it and everything is ok.”

              “Oh, thank God. We were so worried.”

              “I tried to call, but I couldn’t get reception.”

              ‘It’s okay. You’re safe now. That’s all that matters. Your mom will be so relieved.”

              As Robert spoke, Michael came into the room. If Robert had been paying attention, he would have noticed that Michael looked a little pale. He pressed a manila folder to his chest, a ring of sweat darkening the neckline of his white Oxford shirt. His tie had been discarded long ago.

              “Director Morgan?” Michael whispered, loud enough to let Robert know it was important.

              Robert held up his hand impatiently, but Michael insisted.

              “Sir,” he pressed.

              Robert held his hand over the phone and looked up.

              “What
is
it, Michael? I’m talking to my daughter. They just picked her up.”

              “It’s your wife, sir,” Michael said.

              “What about her?”

              Michael began to speak, but stopped. He cleared his throat.

              “Director Morgan,” he began softly, “The storm. It must have been worse in the city. It...your wife. There was a lightning strike. A tree fell through the roof. She…she was resting. A neighbor called. I just talked to the medics. They...they couldn’t get there in time. ”

              Michael paused again and took a deep breath.

              “I’m sorry, sir, but your wife is dead.”

              Claire’s phone slipped from Robert’s hand and hit the table. Rachel’s voice could still be heard - faint and far away - through the speaker.

              “Dad? Dad, are you there?”

              Her voice echoed against the table and through the room like a whisper.

              Outside, the rain persisted. The drops hit the sidewalk hard, like the drumming of fingers. The trees curved, bowing to the wind, stretching out their branches against the ECAG windows. Hands of lightning crackled through the dark sky and the thunder clapped. In the hallway, worker drones moved back and forth, up and down the elevator, papers spilling from binders, while in Robert’s office, everyone stood frozen. Claire held a hand to her mouth. Michael’s eyes were lowered to the floor. They could all still hear Rachel on the phone, calling for her father.

“Hello? Dad? Did I lose you?” 

Final Word

Thank you very much for reading my book. I hope you enjoyed it and found what you were looking for.

Recently, I have started writing under the Pseudonym Ashton Karver, releasing new books in the Science Fiction, Crime and Dystopian Genre. Please feel free to check out
the author page of my new Pseudonym Ashton Karver
.

Below you can find an excerpt of my new Dystopian Novel
Prepper Mortality
.

Big city life, big city problems. Cars that puff balls of smoke into the lungs of non-smokers and smokers alike. Electronics buzzing left right and center, the signals working their way into our brains, dancing in between and on top of brain cells, mucking things up. I could just imagine the signals forcing their way in- lightning-like. Important memory? Zap. IQ? Zap. Life expectancy? Zap. Zap! Zap! Zap!

Nope. Not for me. I like feeling the grass beneath my skin, tickling and itching in all the uncovered regions. I like the feeling of it between my fingers, the way it sounds when I rip a handful out of the earth. And the smell. The smell of nature is enthralling, rejuvenating. Big cities, well, they smell of death. Not the rotten kind of death that should be shoveled six feet under- though I must admit there are some places in the city that ooze that kind of odor. Big cities smell of half dead people; ones with rotten souls and fried brains. They’re all zombies there anyways, so I doubt they mind it. Sure, they might not be digging into the flesh of humans with their porcelain veneers, but deep down, they’re all dead. Dead yet still waiting to die. Maybe they don’t know it. I guess life’s hectic enough in the big city to keep them unaware.

Granddad said something to me years ago that summed up their livelihood pretty well. He said, ‘almost dying keeps them alive.’ That was it. No explanation, no examples. Nothing. ‘Almost dying keeps them alive.’ My ten year old brain went crazy that day. I couldn’t understand how rotting livers and half-baked brains could make anyone feel alive. They ought to know that they’re dying. They had to feel the life seeping out of them- bit by bit.

It wasn’t until a few years later that I fully comprehended granddad’s statement. Big city people were always dodging cars, surviving train wrecks, and trying not to get shot. When they’re in the thick of the danger, and they manage to escape, they
feel
alive. It’s the thrill that doesn’t make them aware of how dead they are before they’re ready to have dirt tossed on top of their coffins.

Berkon’s people aren’t like the city folk. We’re alive. There’s fresh blood pumping through our veins and fresh air filling our uncontaminated lungs. Berkon’s people die from old age, not some random ailment that they brought on themselves. Okay, so maybe that’s what a lifetime in this place led me to believe. I’m a third generation Berkonian- that’s what we call ourselves. Not Americans, not people from Alabama, Berkonians.

On my thirteenth birthday, like all other thirteen year olds, I was taken on a trip to the city, packed in a minibus (one of the only times it was determined fit to pollute the atmosphere) and driven a few hours all the way to a place that left me with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. It was horrendous. People on the corner, sitting in their own filth. Trash on the ground, screaming, hustling and bustling. Too much, just way too much. Everyone looked grumpy, like they’d not only had a bad day, but were prepared to have only bad days from then on. We didn’t want that. No one wanted that, to be living in an environment so cold, so lifeless. So, of course, we stayed in Berkon, never dreaming of stepping a foot off our fertile soil.

I saw the big city and I wanted none of it. That is, until two year ago when I met Maximillian or rather, Max as he likes to be called. A shy boy, my complete opposite, but I guess that’s what made him so interesting. I was sixteen years old at the time and just like boys, girls have their hormones going wild at that age. There he was, dark hair, almost jet black and eyes just a shade lighter. A tiny little dot preceded his lip and signs of stubble traveled from his cheeks to his chin. Tall but not gigantic, built but not monstrous. I was his opposite, short and skinny, blonde hair that looked white in the right- or wrong- light. Rather than a single mole I had a freckled nose and freckled cheeks. In the beginning, there was only one thing we had in common- our ages.

Maximillian Brown’s mom, Penny, moved to Berkon after what he likes to call, her
biggest mental breakdown yet
. Always looking for new family- people who thought like us, prepped like us, wanted to be alive like us- there was little hesitation when it came to letting them in. Of course, they had to be stripped of each and every electronic device before they were allowed through the checkpoint. They were interviewed and questioned, examined and tested and then, finally, allowed to mix with the rest of the Berkonians- granted citizenship, so to speak.

Maximillian was a furious kid, a quiet kid but a furious one, not unlike the people we saw on our trip to the city. However, he had no choice but to get along with someone. Most of the other girls had tried to grab his attention, showing an ankle here, jutting out a hip there, and every once in a while, unbuttoning their shirts a little too deep. He didn’t care for them much and having been rejected enough times, they decided it was best to let him be. Being left alone, unfortunately, becomes frustrating even for those who wish to be left alone. When Maximillian noticed that he no longer wanted to be alone, I took the opportunity to introduce myself. Sure, a part of it was due to the hormones bursting through my veins, but another part- perhaps a bigger one- just wanted to learn about the things he’d seen.

In Berkon, we learned through pictures of all the horrid things the city has to offer. People didn’t only die there, they killed themselves. We learned of planes falling from the sky, bringing hundreds of people to extinction all at once. Our teachers taught us of all the chemicals packed in foods and showed us pictures of the effects they had on the human body.

The city wasn’t a place for people like us, people who want to live. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve heard that said to me or the amount of times I’ve said it to myself after hearing one of Max’s stories. What I knew, was that the more I spoke to him, and the more he showed me, the less I believed in the information I was being fed. From Max, I learned that being a farmer was great but being a pilot was better. I learned that counting knives and forks was boring but counting molecules was much more enthralling. See, Max knew the city, in and out, corner to corner. All his life, he’d called it home. He wasn’t the oldest of the ‘kids’ to join us but I guess one could say the most defiant.

There were rules about spreading rumors about a better life and Max was breaking all those rules by telling me these things. He wasn’t a liar though. He had pictures, tons and tons of pictures to back up his stories. How on earth he got them into Berkon, I had no idea but I saw them, with my own two crystal blue eyes. Pools and white sand beaches, buildings so high, they looked only inches away from grazing the sky. Parties where people splashed colorful paint all over each other, rollercoasters and elevators, churches bigger than neighborhoods and houses with fences all around.

Because of Max, my dreams grew more interesting, my imagination ran wild and I- somewhere deep down- considered horrible actions. I was afraid of what I knew. The place we were taken at thirteen years old was a different place than the one Max introduced me to. He said it was a scare tactic and like a cult, the superiors controlled and limited the information we received. It kept us obedient, believing that we had it better and there was nothing more to go in search of. I hated that word- cult. It’s what Max often referred to us as when we were alone. I guess my hatred might have somewhat stemmed from the fact that I believed, at least partially, that we weren’t very far from being what he thought we were.