The Dance Eternal

Ch 7 - 8

7

“Will someone give me some goddamn reports, here?! I would like to know if I even have a country left.”

President Marcus Fitzgerald, the sixty-fourth president of the United States (if anyone counted anymore – the previous three in a row had been assassinated, plus four others over a span of fifteen years), had been living in a bunker for eight months. Its location was unknown even to him – he’d been brought in blindfolded in the middle of the night the moment the Chinese military breached American airspace with their troop carriers, dropping their forces on the coasts.

“Mr. President,” came a solemn voice behind.

He turned to see one of his aides, a twenty-something who’d been fresh from the Ivy Leagues. His expression was one of utter defeat, and his eyes were rimmed and puffy.

“Mr. President, Flagstaff, Arizona… it’s been annihilated.”

Marcus stared for a moment, then, “Nuclear?”

“We aren’t sure, but preliminary reports are negative. In fact… well, sir, they’re really scratching their heads on this one.”

“What do you mean?”

“There were some odd reports coming in prior to losing contact around 2 A.M.; some really frightening, and hard to believe stuff. Also, the energy scans of the area are crazy, but there was only trace radiation. Nothing anyone has is that clean.”

“Skip the conjecture and give me the facts. Are there any survivors?”

“Satellite scans have shown a few odd vehicles leaving the region in various directions. The bulk of the city is a crater, though. No reports have been picked up coming from the Chinese forces that were in the area, either, so assumptions are that their losses were just as heavy.”

Marcus pondered for a moment, muttering to himself, “Have the Chinese and Arabs split?”

“Another point we aren’t sure on, sir.”

Not realizing that he’d spoken the question aloud, he started at the response.

A heavily decorated General came running up the hall, Marcus saw through the large windows, and threw the door open so that it nearly collided with the glass panes behind, and drew up, panting and dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, opposite the president at the table.

“Sir,” he choked, “it’s done. We’re at DEFCON 1. The Chinese and Arabs both have issued all-out war, and are firing up their tacticals. They fully plan to fire everything they have at everyone.”

Marcus planted his hands on the table, leaning toward the General. “Everyone?”

“Us, each other, anyone else they’ve deemed a target. They’re planning to fully launch everything they have! Sir, the DOJ is asking if we should retaliate, launch our own?”

Marcus Fitzgerald, President of the United Stated, shrugged and said, “Why? With that many nukes flying about, what difference will a few more make? They’ll destroy each other, as well.” He slowly shook his head, “May God save our souls.”

8

In the small hours of the morning (John couldn’t be sure, since his phone was gone and his car stereo never kept the time correctly), the little convoy, now four vehicles total, descended a steep hill on the highway into a canyon, where lights could be seen flickering in the distance.

The soldier driving the truck came over the radio, sounding a bit excited, “That should be the place, about thirty minutes.”

“Hey, Dennis, was it?” John said to the older man he’d taken as a passenger two hours ago. He’d broken down alone, and been stranded. John offered to let him ride in his car, and they’d begun talking, during which Dennis had revealed that he’d seen the things, himself – they’d ‘devoured’ his wife and son.

The man shifted, then snapped awake, “Wha… what’s going on?”

“It’s okay. We’re almost there.”

Dennis shifted himself straight in the seat, groaning slightly about “little cars”, then said, “Sorry man, no offense. Just too old.”

John chuckled a little, “It’s okay.”

“It’s a little nostalgic, really. I used to drive a little classic when I was a teenager. Had an old VW Bug my Dad and I restored.” Dennis laughed in memory, looking out the passenger window at a ranch house in the distance. He turned to John, a sly grin on his lips, “Had my first time in that car.”

They both chuckled a little, as the convoy wound down the highway. The night had been exceptionally dark; the moon had set early, and it was cloudy besides.

As the road straightened to cross the valley seen earlier, first one, then another drop of rain splattered themselves on the windshield. Several more appeared, and Johnathan glanced upward as distant flash lit the clouds to the northeast.

By the time they reached the opposite side of the valley, it was raining steadily, and the wipers swept across the glass at intervals.

“Been a while since I’ve seen a good rain,” John mused. He had always liked the rain.

Dennis was looking out the side again, “Just glad it isn’t snow,” he chuckled. “Drove through a snow storm once, up in Wyoming. Damned blizzard. I mean, you couldn’t see past the hood.

He turned and started watching ahead, continuing, “I’m driving this old Bronco – I was twenty-nine – with a girl I was friends with at the time…”

John concentrated on the road, wishing for a radio station. Dennis seemed a nice guy, but seemed to have an anecdote for everything. He quit wondering a couple stories in as to the veracity of Dennis’ accounts, mostly just glad it wasn’t total silence in the car.

“… had to dig the truck out the next morning. That was a quiet ride back, for sure,” he said, chuckling.

John chuckled, too, not wanting to make things awkward, and sighed a little inside at seeing the truck slowing ahead. The left blinker came on, and the truck swept onto a smaller paved road that passed between a pair of tiny guard buildings, both empty. Lightning flashed in the clouds, showing a chain link fence that stretched into the woods on either side, topped with a continuous coil of razor wire.

“So, any idea where we’re heading,” Dennis asked, giving a little shudder at seeing the fence.

“The only thing I could get from anyone was that this is some private research facility – don’t know who owns it – and that they’ve offered shelter to those who can make it.”

“No one thinks this is shady?”

John glanced at the other man; Dennis seemed genuinely concerned. Finally, John said, “Well, I’m not sure what else to do, man. I got told that Flagstaff is gone. I know that several other major cities are basically rubble – New York City is a shell. If that happened here, what safety is there in any city?”

“You have a point. I just don’t think that what hit Flagstaff was from the Chinese or the Arabs.”

“Why not,” John asked, curious.

Dennis looked at him, now, “I saw it, man. It was… I hate to say it, but it was awe-some. Never seen anything like it.”

Johnathan wondered if Dennis was having a joke with him, but when he glanced at the older man, there was no mirth on his face. John gawked, “What? How?”

“It wasn’t nuclear… not even atomic. It was around two that morning, and I had just broken down-“ A sudden thought crossed his mind, “that must be what it was. My truck quit just before the blast, and I noticed the lights wink out at the same time.

“Anyway, the actual blast; it bloomed outward from the center of the city, this dome that looked like a latticework of writhing flames, expanded until the whole town was covered. Then, it pulsed a couple times, and collapsed with a massive boom. I tell you, it left a perfectly rounded crater, like everything within was disintegrated.”

They were silent for a time, the rain pattering on the windshield, occasionally interrupted by a squeak from the wipers. Dennis had commented on the noise some time ago, adding some anecdote about his sister and a bag of oranges… he hadn’t been listening too closely then, either.

The driver of the transport truck suddenly squelched over the radio, “Okay, people. Looks like we are there. Gonna be stopping at a checkpoint.”

The truck’s brake lights flashed on, reflected on the wet road, as it slowed to a stop at a fence that had been erected across the road, lined in the inside with scraps of wood and metal to provide some cover. Portable lights had been set up - bright-as-day halogen spotlights on wheeled bases – that cast the area in a stark white glow that seemed to pour from these spindly fonts. John could see six soldiers, and he assumed they wore body armor under the green camo ponchos they wore against the rain. They stood, mingling just inside the fence, looking alert but ready to be dry. Each carried an assault rifle, and were on high alert, several aiming everywhere they looked.

Another soldier stepped into view from the front of the truck, looking down the convoy, then waved them forward. As John passed the gated, his suspicions were confirmed; the entire area around this checkpoint was crawling with soldiers. Temporary barriers made from concrete were set along either side of the opening in the fence, creating a defensible bottleneck and providing more cover. A group of about a dozen tents had sprung up off to the left, and several small lanterns could be seen flickering near them.

“That’s a good sign – they have at least some power, by the lights,” said Dennis idly as they passed from the light-pond, and John nodded his assent.

They drove on in the dark of early morning, rain still steadily falling. Ahead and to the left, they could see a glow above the trees, the same stark white as was near the checkpoint, and finally began to feel hopeful. John was just thinking that the little ball of filth in his mind had finally taken a hike, but, as if thinking about it was a summons, the sensation lightly trembled in its hidey hole.

“Hey Dennis,” he started, but was hesitant. He didn’t want the guy thinking he was nuts, but he decided to go on, “have you felt anything… odd… since this mess began?”

Dennis looked over, hearing the hesitance, “’Odd’ how?”

John squinted through the glare of the truck’s brake lights refracted through the raindrops, trying to figure out how to explain it without sounding like he’d lost it, when he realized that they had rolled into a shanty town. As he looked out to the hastily erected buildings made from various scrap panels of wood and metal, he was relieved to have been distracted.

Lights had been strung up, the wires leading past the truck, and even at this time of night, there were a number of people, soldiers and civvies alike, going about their business. John could see the mess tent; several people worked around a makeshift kitchen area, going about the task of making enough food. A long pavilion style tent, open on all sides, stood over a pair of long tables made from a number of smaller folding tables and regular dinner tables, surrounded by a random collection of chairs and benches.

A grumble from his gut reminded that he hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, and he decided that, after a shower, food was the next priority. Or was it sleep? He was still deciding when the line stopped.

The truck came to a stop in a parking area, and in the light of the area he could see that they were at the base of a mountain, which wound outward behind them forming a canyon. If seen from the air, it would look as if the mountain was protectively surrounding them with her ‘arms’. Ahead, the canyon seemed to end in a large concrete wall set with what looked to be a massive metal door.

The flap on the back of the truck opened, and a pair of soldiers dropped out and began offering help to the rest of the people within. Four guys helped the one soldiers who’d brought him the radio, and shouldered him past – he grinned and gave John a thumbs-up on the way by.

The sounds of other car doors closing told him the others had gotten out of their vehicles, and they had all, he and Dennis included, started filtering toward the front of the transport truck.

Once there, John could see that the area before door was mostly clear of people, but the shanty construction to the sides had gone all the way to the rock of the mountainside. A yellow rotating light sprang to life, its amber glow washing across the paved lot and those gathered there. A short metallic screech filled the valley, followed by the rumbling of several large and heavy gears, as the metal door began to raise like a portcullis. The whole process took less than ten seconds, and the door clanged to a stop just above six feet.

A group of people emerged; some were in military fatigues, while others sported lab coats, and a few were in street clothes – jeans and a t-shirt.

The people of the caravan, including John and Dennis, looked on at the spectacle, as the soldiers went off in different directions on some task or another. Meanwhile, the lab-coats-and-plain-clothes group moved toward the newcomers.

Dennis leaned toward John, his voice low and a bit snide, “Somebody likes to make an entrance.”

One man, a guy in his fifties in jeans and a heavily faded Led Zeppelin tee and sporting a couple weeks’ facial growth, walked up to the truck’s driver with his hand out.

“Stephen Haverstad, Head of Research, at your service,” he said as he pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

The soldier shook Stephen’s hand vigorously, which caused his glasses to slide back to their original position, “Lieutenant Kevin Short, sir, U.S. Marine Corps,” he gestured to the soldier to his right, “and Corporal Aaron Vilao.”

Haverstad began moving down the line, giving his introduction.

“John, Shandor.”

Haverstad paused, an eyebrow sliding upward. “Shandor. That’s… unusual.”

“Hungarian,” John replied flatly, clearly not wanting to discuss his background.

Haverstad seemed to take the hint with a small nod, then, “Come, everyone. Inside are clean clothes, food… and hot showers!” Weak cheers came from the newcomers, too exhausted to get excited, and Haverstad turned back toward the open doorway.

“That’s what I like to hear. A nice hot shower,” said Dennis as he passed John.

John stood watching Haverstad, the others passing him and urging him along. Something in that expression, and the way he seemed to know the name. He started in with the others, moving at a purposeful pace, and when he caught up to Haverstad, the other caught his arm lightly, “Can I take some of your time, later?”

He tilted his head curiously, wondering at the man’s motives, “Okay, but after I’ve had a shower, please. I’m offending myself with my stink.”

Haverstad smiled, then laughed, “Agreed.”