Free World War III by Heath Jannusch Page B

and glanced at the secret service agent guarding the door. “It’s Evelyn, Mr. President.”
    “Oh good,” said Hamilton, “where is she? I want to speak with her immediately.”
    “Well, Mr. President,” replied Moore, “that’s the problem. She isn’t here.”
    “Where is she?”
    “We still don’t know.”
    “You pulled me away from a nuclear strike to tell me that you still don’t know anything?” asked Hamilton. He was about to return to his office when Moore’s voice stopped him.
    “Not exactly Mr. President. We do know that she’s no longer at the ski resort in Vail.”
    “Well then, where is she?” demanded Hamilton.
    “When our agents arrived and entered Evelyn’s room she was already gone,” explained Moore. “All that remained as proof that she’d even been there was her luggage and the remains of her secret service detail.”
    “Remains?” asked Hamilton. His mouth felt dry. His heart started to pound and he was having trouble focusing on what Moore was saying.
    “Yes sir,” answered Moore, casting another glance towards the agent guarding the door. “Apparently, they’d all been executed.”
    Hamilton’s legs began to feel weak at the knees, as he dropped onto the sofa, his hands clenched in fists of rage. He covered his face, as tears began to stream down his cheeks. His arms and legs were shaking uncontrollably. “Evelyn…Evelyn…Evelyn,” he whispered her name over and over.
    “Mr. President?”
    Hamilton gave no response.
    “Mr. President?”
    “What is it Moore?” asked Hamilton without looking up, his eyes fixated on the carpet in front of him.
    “I just wanted to say how sorry I am, and that we’ll keep looking. Don’t worry John,” said Moore, calling the President by his first name. He rested his hand on the President’s shoulder, “We’ll find her.”
    The door opened and Moore’s assistant entered, “Mr. President, we have Mrs. Whitfield on the phone.”
     

Counter-Strike
     
     
    World War III – Day One
    Olympia, Washington
     
    The fog was so thick, that Casey didn’t see the tree branches in the middle of the road, until it was too late. The branches were about a dozen feet in length and six inches thick, left by a recent storm that had passed through the area. He quickly pressed down on the brakes of the big-rig, as he rolled over the branches. His body bounced up and down on the bench seat until the last of his eighteen wheels had cleared the debris.
    He’d left Seattle earlier that day and planned on driving south, stopping at towns along the way to trade in goods. His first stop would be the capital of Washington, near the snowcapped Olympic Mountains, and then down the coast to Oregon and California.
    A steady downpour of rain began, as Casey rolled into the quaint town of Olympia. Although the rain helped to clean the air, he was looking forward to the trip south and the promise of a warmer, dryer climate. He didn’t mind rain, in fact he loved it, but having to deal with it every day was becoming tiresome. Up ahead, he saw what looked like a small farmers’ market located in a large park.
    Perfect!
    Casey turned the wheel of his truck and steered into the parking lot. With an expertise that only comes with experience, he guided the trailer backwards into a tight spot between two tents. He could hear subtle sounds of movement in the back of his trailer, as items shifted back and forth. With the emergency brake locked safely in place, he climbed down from the cab and looked around.
    He could see a few people walking around, holding umbrellas or wearing ponchos, but the majority had taken cover from the rain inside one of the makeshift tents. Casey decided there wouldn’t be much trading done until the rain stopped, so he climbed back into the cab and snuggled down on the small bed in the back. He selected a book from a pile at the foot of the bed and started reading. He didn’t get very far before he dozed off, lulled to sleep by the