The Void (10 page)

He hesitated, and then cast an eye to the full-blown riot on the streets below.

“Do it. Do whatever you have to,” he screamed, staring at the child with a twisted half grimace on his face.

The boy nodded, and squinted up to the sky.

V

The MH-60L Direct Attack Penetrator hovered thirty-five feet above the street. Pilot Lance T. Crebble, was holding station above the smoldering remains of the apartment complex. As he looked at the violence unfolding below, he was grateful to be in such a lofty position. He adjusted the position of the helicopter, enabling him to get a better view of the hole. Although he was curious, he was always of the opinion that not thinking about what something could be was better than dwelling on it too much. It was like when he was in Baghdad. It’s easier to fire missiles into a compound when they are just a bunch of monochrome smudges on a monitor screen, something that he was sure would be infinitely more difficult if he thought to consider those inside as people he was—

Get out.

The thought appeared forcefully into his head, and was so strong, so alien; he almost passed it off as someone speaking it into his ear. He glanced around the cockpit, but as expected, he was alone.

Get out. NOW.

It wasn’t a thought, nor an idea, but a command. Given to him with such authority that he felt his skin tingle with fear.

Jump. Before it’s too late.

He looked down at the street below and saw no place with which to safely land. He tried to lower the chopper towards the ground but was dismayed to find that the controls were not responding.

The helicopter was moving towards the hole.

VI

Clifton watched open mouthed as the young boy pointed at the helicopter, and seemed to drag it across the air with his hand. Clifton watched as the pilot jumped clear, landing hard in the back of a flatbed truck, his legs breaking on impact. The chopper was spinning now, slewing in ever accelerating circles as it raced towards the hole.

“Are you putting it in the hole?” Clifton shouted, his voice an octave too high as he stared at the chopper, performing maneuvers that no human could hope to ever replicate.

“No,” Morgan said, not taking his eyes off the chopper as he raced it through the air. Clifton realized then that this was no mere boy, this was something else. Something not covered in any of his training exercises and manuals, something that nobody could have prepared for.

Morgan closed his eyes and launched the gunship towards Embry’s house.

VII

She has to die.

Morgan’s words echoed through Embry’s mind as the MH-60 slewed towards the house. He couldn’t move, and like a deer caught in headlights, he stared at what he was certain was his coming death. The chopper banked as it neared, its rotor blades exploding in shards of lethal steel as they connected with the concrete. Although he had learned to hate his existence and had welcomed death with open arms, now, at the end, he realized that he did want to live, and that life actually did matter to him. It was, however too late, and he let out a hoarse scream and threw his arms up instinctively to protect himself as the chopper slammed into the house, its fuel tanks igniting, and, in turn, exploding the three remaining hellfire missiles on board. Embry’s house exploded in a deafening roar, Fuel-fed flames tearing through the structure with ease and bringing the entire building down in a fiery explosion.

Embry had always been of the belief that when faced with death, a person’s life would flash before their eyes, but for him, nothing happened. He wasn’t sure if it was because that particular myth was purely bullshit, or, more likely, that he hadn’t done anything worth remembering.

The house collapsed in on itself, the flaming, blackened skeleton of the chopper sliding straight through the building, and taking with it a portion of his neighbor’s house too, leaving it without an upper corner wall.

Thick, black smoke and intense heat combined with the thunder of shattered concrete, exploded wood, annihilated glass. Embry’s home was completely brought to the ground.

He was still screaming, and it was then as he opened his eyes that he understood. He was surrounded by the remains of his house. Smoke billowed from shattered furnishings; rooms, which were once part of his living space, were now nothing more than pulverized rubble. He, however, was unharmed. He stood upright and reached a tentative hand out to touch the semi-transparent blue dome which surrounded him. Within, no damage had occurred. The carpet which had covered his living room was plush and untouched within his sanctuary, yet beyond was lost in a mountain of debris.

His heart felt as if it had relocated into his throat, and pounded there as he squinted through the thick, black smoke and shimmering heat haze.

Tina was gone.

All that remained within Embry’s dome was her one singular smooth hand, still clenched into a fist. He looked at it in fascination, noting that it was cleaved smoothly at an angle just above the wrist. There was no blood, and as Embry looked, he could see a sickening cross section of the inner workings of her arm. Twin white circles of the Radius and ulna bones were clearly visible, as was the cross section of muscle, nerves, and skin. The rest of her was gone, destroyed in the raging fire and utter destruction in what used to be Embry’s home. Recovering a little, Embry glared across the carnage to the boy, who was still standing atop the truck. It was then that he realized that there was silence. The rioting had stopped, as had the shooting. Even the hole was now silent, seemingly, for the time being satisfied with the boy’s offering. Now, everyone’s attention was fully on Embry and Morgan.

Sheppard gripped the jagged remains of the window frame, ignoring the sharp, bitter pain as the glass punctured his skin. He had seen what the boy did, and worse, he had seen what Embry had not – his terrified daughter being killed as the chopper exploded into the house. He watched now through gritted teeth as the man somehow walked out of the rubble and into the street, and the people parted as if he was some kind of god on earth. The boy also seemed to have some kind of power, and almost instantly, Sheppard’s grief transformed into rage. He had always tried to live a good life, to avoid the fanatical support of Allah that some of his countrymen chose as their lifestyle, but this single incident had not only tested his faith, it had destroyed it. It was only now, with his nostrils filled with the stench of acrid smoke, and his ears ringing from the concussion blast of the explosions, that he considered what to do. He glared at the man and boy who had caused his daughter’s death and was further enraged, for they were being neither detained nor arrested. Instead, they were both in polite conversation with what looked to be an army general. If he didn’t know any better, Sheppard could quite easily imagine that they were discussing the weather or perhaps a recently watched television program. He squeezed the window frame even tighter, the tips of his fingers turning white with the pressure of his grip.

Bastards.

His throat was dry, and he could taste the soot and dust from the explosion. He looked around the shattered remains of his apartment, looking for something to drink when his eyes landed on the backpack on the floor. It had fallen through the gaping hole in the roof where, two floors above, the Saudi men had been holed up. It had fallen through not one, but two apartments in order to land on his floor, and he crawled over to it on hands and knees, ignoring the sting of pain from razor sharp diamonds of glass which littered his floor. He also ignored the other stuff, the chewed up, fleshy remains of the people who had lived upstairs. Thankfully, although he could tell they were parts of people, they were too mangled for him to identify where on the body they came from. However, just the sheer fact that the grisly, fleshy pieces now littered his apartment, made him even more furious at the American government and their insistence on flexing their military muscles at every opportunity. He reached out a bloody and shaking hand and dragged the khaki backpack towards him, brushed the glass off the top and opened it.

The device inside was alien to him, as he had never seen such a thing before. He knew well enough what it was, of course, he watched the news. He knew a bomb when he saw one, but to actually hold one in his hands, to have one in his apartment made his heart race. Tucked beside the device was a note. Sheppard pulled it out and opened it, reading the Arabic with ease.

Salem,

By the time you receive this, we shall already be with Allah.

The infidel Americans will pay dearly for their continued ignorance.

Take this device, my friend, and join us in glory.

Allah be with you.

Sheppard looked from the note to the device, then over his shoulder at the ravaged remains of his apartment. He realized then that he had nothing left. Nothing at all. No wife, and now not even his child, his sole reason for carrying on for so long without putting a bullet in his brain. In fact, his entire being felt empty, an alien vessel housing his consciousness. He knew the government had been watching him, had been sure of it for weeks, and now they had tried to kill him, and by some twist of fate, he had survived and his beautiful daughter had perished. Hot tears stung his cheeks as a single word started to fill that empty void that housed his consciousness, and as that word grew, the more it seemed like a plausible idea.

Revenge.

Wiping his eyes, Sheppard looked into the backpack, wondering if he could even figure out how to use the device in the first place. His prayers were answered when he found the second envelope, the one that gave detailed instructions on how to arm and detonate the weapon. It seemed that Allah was with him after all, and as a man with nothing to lose, he could, at least, ensure that the man and boy who had caused the death of his daughter joined him in hell. He opened the instructions and began to read.

II

Jim Roberts had been chief of staff to the president for the last twenty-four years. At fifty-six, he had been lucky enough to serve under some of the best and most gracious men ever to lead the country. As he walked through the wide corridors of the White House, Roberts thought that on the presidential quality scale, current White House occupant, Francis Evans, was frankly out of his depth.

A good president will have clarity of thought, an open mind, and a certain integrity, which inspires people to excel. Evans had none of these things and was, in Roberts’s eyes, still more concerned with opinion polls and how the public perceived him than actually making sure the country was run with some degree of competence. Roberts had been certain he would only last for a single term and was surprised and a little disappointed when Evans somehow managed to secure a second spell in charge. It seemed that now, though, the people were starting to tire of his empty promises and insincere bullshit and look towards the future. That kid from Ohio, Dixon, was looking good for the role and was everything that Evans was not. There was a wave of optimism and excitements about how he might change things for the better, and at just thirty-seven, had the energy and drive to finally move the country forward, if only Evans would release his death grip on the controls of the good ship U.S.A. that was.

Roberts had seen this before, desperate old men trying to cling on to power, knowing that without it they would be just another citizen, just another man having to live under a country’s rules set by somebody else. It was the equivalent of a quest overstaying their welcome. Eventually, the host reached breaking point and kicked the guest to the curb. And not a moment too soon, because some of the president’s recent decisions had been bordering on crossing the line into abuse of power. Roberts knew well enough that the president danced to the beat of his own drum, that he had his own agenda and ready-made cast of cronies— yes men, designed to stroke his ego and tell him what he wanted to hear. He would never be a Lincoln or a Washington. Hell, he was barely a Clinton or Bush.

Roberts arrived at the door to the oval office, took a deep breath, then knocked and entered. President Evans was sitting at his desk, poring over reports of the incident on Maple Street. He waved Roberts in and pointed to the seat opposite. Roberts sat and watched the tired old man finish reading the file, then close it.

“This is all going to hell, Jim,” he said with a sigh, rubbing his temples.

“Mr. President, I’m not sure if containment is the answer. If there is a threat to national security I—”

“We can’t afford this to leak, not so close to the election,” Evans interjected, turning his cool blue gaze on his chief of staff.

“Forgive me, sir, but isn’t public safety more important than politics right now?”

Evans flashed a smile which reminded Roberts of a crocodile, then folded his hands on his desk. “You don’t understand, Jim. I know you have been here for a number of years, and your commitment to this country is second to none. Nevertheless, the fact remains, that until we have a clear indication of the circumstances surrounding the incident on Maple Street, then we must contain it. We cannot afford national panic.”

“Sir, I just don’t see how we can keep a lid on this. With modern communication I—”

“It’s already dealt with,” Evans said, raising a hand. “There is a strict three-mile perimeter around the street, and beyond that, citywide evacuations. We have also blocked all outgoing telephone and internet signals and imposed a ten-mile no-fly zone around the radius of the incident. The ‘lid’ as you put it, is firmly in place.”

“And what about the terrorists, sir? What if there are more attacks?”

“There won’t be.”

“Again, sir, shouldn’t we prepare for every eventuality?”

President Evans stood and walked to the window, folding his arms behind his back. For a few moments, there was silence, and then Evans turned towards Roberts, and for the second time in five minutes, flashed his reptilian grin.

“Look, Jim, I know you mean well, and I know you have been here a hell of a long time; however, I remind you that I am commander in chief. The buck stops with me. So if I deem this as the best course of action, then I expect you to stand by me.”

“Mr. President, I’m trying to offer an alternate viewpoint. I meant no disrespect.”

The words grated on Jim, and second by second, his hate for the vile man in charge of the country grew. Evans sat and folded his hands on the desktop, then looked Roberts in the eye.

“This country has been living on edge since 9/11. Of course, we tell the people we have it under control, but you and I both know that there are more terror groups out there than we can ever hope to monitor. We lie to the people not through cruelty, but because it’s vital we maintain calm.”

Jim watched impassively, half thinking that with some tweaking, this dialogue could go straight into a reelection speech. Evans went on.

“You and I both know the polls aren’t in my favor. That kid from Ohio is the new people’s favorite, and the truth is, I don’t think he’s ready. I think he is four or five years away from being ready to run this country, and I wish him luck.

Four of five years, Jim thought to himself. Just enough time for you to squeeze one more term in. Convenient.

“What I don’t want, Jim, and I’m sure you will agree, is for this country to put the wrong man in charge.”

Too late for that.

Jim ignored the thought and continued to give the president his full attention.

“If there is one thing that the history of this country tells us, it’s that the people secretly enjoy a good crisis and more so the action that follows. We already have confirmation that there is a small terror cell in the area, but is that enough? Is it an Iraq war, or a 9/11 type situation where the country as one look to their leader for both guidance and swift action?”

“I don’t quite understand what you are saying, sir,” Roberts said, barely able to hide his sheer disgust.

“What I’m saying, Jim, is that we need this crisis. Sure enough, the people don’t know what it is yet, but only because we don’t either. Once we do know what’s in that hole, and what its threat level is, then we can destroy it. By any means necessary.”

“Any means?” Roberts said, leaning forwards slightly. “Are you suggesting nuclear?”

Evans squirmed and licked his lips. “I’m not suggesting anything, not yet. Not until we know more. All I’m saying is that if we decided that it was a viable option, and with the political landscape so fragile for this administration, then I think it would be acceptable to do so covertly.”

“Covertly?” Roberts said, unable to hide his frustration. “We aren’t talking about a quick smash and grab here, sir; you are talking about a nuclear weapon with a blast radius of over five miles. The loss of life would be catastrophic.”

“I agree, and I pray we don’t have to resort to such an extreme response. I’m just suggesting that by isolating the situation, we can put the blame squarely at the door of these terror groups, do what we need to do and then I can lead this country in pursuit of these vile groups for the remainder of my term, at least until Dixon, or whoever the public deem fit for the job can take over.”

Roberts knew what was happening, and worryingly, was sure he knew exactly what Evans was planning. It was textbook. Discover situation, escalate situation, find a scapegoat, promise revenge, stay in power. It was both brilliant and nauseating. Roberts shuffled his position and looked Evans in the eye.

“May I speak freely, sir?”

“Of course, go ahead.”

Roberts relaxed a little and leaned closer in his seat.

“Look, Francis, my role here is to support you and advise you, and with that in mind, I implore you to think about what you are suggesting here. You are talking about dropping a nuke on a populated area, then spending trillions of dollars chasing ghosts in the aftermath, just to keep in office. Maybe it’s time to let someone else take the reins. Spend some time with Angela, go fishing. Enjoy retirement.”

“You forget that these bastards struck first. They put this damn hole in the road and detonated suicide vests. God damn suicide vests!” he bellowed, flecks of spittle landing on the desk.

“You might mean well, Jim, and I appreciate it, but I’m in charge here, and I know what’s best for this country. Do I have your support?”

Jim hesitated, licking his lips as he swallowed back the answer that he wanted to give, and with it the tirade of abuse that he wanted to send across the desk to the pig-headed, self-serving man in charge of the nation.

“Do I have your support?” Evans repeated, this time with more conviction.

“Yes, sir, you have my support,” Jim said, just about able to hide his disgust.

“Very good, now please, I have work to do.”

Jim nodded and stood, then headed to the door. He wondered how it was that he was now more afraid of the President and what he might do than of the situation on Maple Street. Ignoring the quiver in his stomach and the weak, jelly-like feel of his legs as he walked, Jim left President Evans alone to contemplate the destruction of Maple Street and all in its surroundings.