Free Apocalypse Machine by Jeremy Robinson Page A

lied to. He knows more than he’s said, and whatever it is he’s not telling me, it’s not good.

 
     
    9
     
    Despite the growing list of unanswered questions and unvented anger, I fall asleep only five minutes after liftoff. Rest had been impossible on the flight from Iceland. Frenetic energy buzzed through the passengers like an agitated specter, keeping eyes wide and mouths speculating. So when I leaned back in the plush executive chair, a remnant of this vehicle’s former corporate life, blanketed by the white noise of the engines, I closed my eyes. For the first time since wrapping my hand around that black and red spike, I rested.
    Briefly.
    I jolt awake as the wheels touch down, frantically clawing at the armrests as inertia pulls me forward. I’m held in place by a seatbelt I don’t remember buckling. Before we’ve come to a complete stop, the two Marines seated in front of me unbuckle, stand and turn around, with the single-minded efficiency of synchronized swimmers. Then they separate, one headed for me, the other for Holly, who just woke up.
    “Come with me, Mr. Wright,” the nearest of the two big men says. His tone suggests I better find my legs, and fast, or he’s going to manhandle me. But is he an ass, or just in a rush? Either way, I don’t want to know what his meaty hands feel like, so I push myself up with a groan. My knees wobble for a moment, but I remain upright, clinging to a seatback.
    “Move it, Mr. Wright,” Holly says in a deep voice, hobbling past me with a grin. The Marine following her doesn’t seemed pleased by the impression, but it lightens my spirits and ignites my competitive spirit. If Holly can walk on her own, so can I.
    Limping on both legs looks funny, like a tall, Indian Runner duck, wings folded down, body wobbling from side to side. It hurts, but the image keeps my spirits lifted. Slightly. I still don’t know what’s happening, or where my family is.
    We’re whisked into a black SUV with tinted windows. I half expect to be greeted by some shady Smoking Man, but the back seat is empty. Blue and red lights strobe from the windshield, pushing traffic out of the way, and we’re treated to a very fast, psychedelic, tour of Washington, D.C. And then we’re underground. It happens so fast, I miss the transition, and I flinch back as we race down the well-lit concrete tunnel.
    Tires screech. Doors open from the outside. Men in suits, wearing coiled white comms in one ear, motion for us to exit.
    “This way,” one of them says, leading us to an elevator, its doors already open and waiting.
    “If you all went into fast food, you’d make the—” A glare silences me.
    Inside the elevator, I take a moment to stretch my legs, pulling my feet up behind my butt. Before I’m done with the second, the doors open and the agent steps out, motioning for us to follow. Holly gives me a nervous glance, but then follows the man.
    On slowly limbering legs, I follow. The journey is a short one, ending at a door guarded by two more Secret Service agents. One of the two agents twists the knob slowly and pulls the door open without making a sound. Commingling voices slide out of the room beyond. It sounds like a party, I think, and then I step over the threshold and realize there is nothing festive about this room, or the people in it.
    The long, rectangular room is occupied by a large wooden table, currently covered in open documents and laptops. Flat-screen monitors are mounted around the room, taking up wall space like a grandmother’s family photos. White light from the ceiling makes most of the room’s occupants—generals, advisors, elected officials, some of whom I recognize—look pale, even those who aren’t already white. When I see what’s on the monitors, I realize it might not be the light making them look pale.
    Scenes of death and destruction surround the room, displayed on the monitors. Some are newsfeeds from around the world. Some are satellite images, though