Free Shock Warning by Michael Walsh

Something was wrong. “What do you know about poisons?”
    “Get to the point.” Secure wireless conversations didn’t stay secure forever.
    “V- series nerve agent, Novichoks, QNB—I can’t tell yet.”
    “Where are you?”
    “Coalinga, heading north to San Francisco. Every cow within fifty miles is dead.”
    “People?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Then it’s probably not poison. What’s the news say?”
    He could hear “Don Barker” fiddling with the radio. He could hear other voices. Devlin’s keen ears picked them up—three females, one boy.
    “Reports just coming in now.”
    “Get over to Lemoore and stand by.” Lemoore was a naval air station between Coalinga and Visalia. “Hope and the kids will be safe there.”
    “Roger that.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Do you believe in miracles?”
    Until an hour ago, the answer would have been no. “Yes,” he said, and rang off.

C HAPTER N INE
    Washington, D.C.
    President John Edward Bilodeau Tyler looked at the latest poll numbers on his computer screen, then turned and reached for the fresh whiskey that Manuel Concepcion, his personal steward, always had ready for him. Especially these days.
    “This fucking bitch.”
    That would be Angela Hassett, the other party’s nominee. She’d been crowned in Kansas City, at their convention, her candidacy covered by the cable news networks as breathlessly as the Second Coming. The First Woman Major Party Candidate! The greatest orator since . . . since, well, the last one. Surprisingly feminine—hot, even—and yet as ruthless as any man. A ball breaker, as a matter of fact, and wasn’t that great? About time the boys got a taste of their own. Served them right for hundreds of years of male chauvinist piggery-pokery, to coin a word.
    As for him, let him so much as take a swing at her and the enemedia immediately went into its protective crouch, deploying its legions of sycophants and feuilletonistas in her defense. A fixed fight would have been one thing, but a fixed fight in which the designated tomato can wasn’t even allowed to throw a fig-leaf punch was another. Now he knew what Robert Ryan must have felt like in The Set-Up , except at least he fought back. And look what happened to him. Reflexively, he glanced down at his right hand, to make sure it was still working.
    There were just weeks to go before the election, he was behind by double digits, he couldn’t seem to lay a glove on her, and the country hated him even more today than it did in the aftermath of the Times Square disaster. He used to think his doofus predecessor was a moron, but now he was acquiring a strange new respect, as the media hacks liked to say. It was a match between a puncher and a boxer, and the boxer was kicking his ass. Still, all he needed was one punch, something to put the bitch on her butt, to teach the women that more than a century after the Nineteenth Amendment, if they wanted to play with the big boys, they had to be prepared for some broken bones and bloody noses.
    He didn’t even have to ask Manuel for a refill, because, as always, it was always there. If he had to go into premature retirement, he had to figure out a way to take Manuel with him.
    “Anything else, Mr. President?” asked Manuel.
    “Better poll numbers?”
    “I don’t think we have that, sir,” replied Manuel.
    “A decent movie in the White House theater tonight?”
    “You’ll have to ask Hollywood for that, sir,” said Manuel. “It’s above my pay grade.”
    “Mine too,” mused Tyler.
    In one smooth motion, Manuel slipped him a new glass and whisked away the empty. “Besides,” he said, “they’re all going to vote for her.”
    Tyler grabbed the glass and downed the whole thing. “Don’t I know it,” he said. “And after all I’ve done for them. “No justice,” said Manuel.
    “No peace,” finished Tyler. “Now, what do you want, besides getting me drunk?
    “General Seelye is here to see you, sir.”
    Tyler sighed. “Hasn’t he