Free Extermination Day by William Turnage Page A

on the plane and die. It’s up to you.” He was tired of dealing with sniveling bureaucrats. “If you want to live, you’re going to have to fight for it.”
    That dose of stern reality seemed to hit the crowd and they quieted down.
    “We land in forty-five minutes,” he told them. “Those with bio-suits will exit the plane using the emergency exit chutes so that contaminated air won’t be able to enter the cabin. We’ll find shuttles and other forms of transportation to take everyone else to the base. Then you’ll exit the plane and make your way as fast as possible to the transport vehicles. The drive should be about thirty minutes. Once inside the bunker, we can enter the biohazard decontamination area and wash to remove any virus clinging to our clothes. Everyone will be quarantined upon arrival at the base to see if you’ve contracted the virus. Dr. Peebles will coordinate our efforts there. Questions?”
    “Why are there only eight suits on board?” one woman asked.
    “Budget cuts,” Paulson said simply.
    Looking like sad puppets, everyone nodded. Having worked in Washington, they knew all too well about budget cuts.
    “Anyone else?” Paulson asked. “I wish there were enough bio-suits for all. I wish we hadn’t been attacked. I wish that billions of people hadn’t died.” He touched the shoulder of the woman on his right, the man on his left. “I wish your loved ones and mine hadn’t died.” He paused again, not sure his voice would hold. Then he said, “This is not only the gravest threat that the United States has ever faced, it’s the greatest threat humanity has ever faced. It’s up to us to do what we can to survive. I’m sorry I don’t have better news, people. But now is the time you look deep inside yourselves and draw up the energy and strength that I know you have in there. We can do this.” Paulson looked over the crowd again, searching for courage, for strength, in them. He saw hope, some hope, returning to their faces.
    “Now for the straws.”
    Colonel Demetrius stepped forward. “I have three short straws here, and the rest are long.” He showed the straws. “I’ll hold them in my hands, and everyone will get a chance to choose. Those that pick the short straws will walk to the next cabin and receive instructions on how to put on and operate the bio-suits. The rest of you will receive gas masks and instructions on how to use them and how to best cover any exposed areas of your body.” Demetrius was firm, his voice strong and direct.
    Several responded with “Yes, sir,” and others nodded.
    “Very well then. Here we go.”
    Paulson watched as the colonel extended his hands and each person—senior staffers, assistants, military personnel, reporters, and a few businessmen and financial donors, plus many good friends—walked forward to pick their straw. The mood was somber and as silent as a funeral as people drew their potential fate.
    The first short straw went to Melinda Rider, one of Paulson’s staff. He smiled, just a small stretching of his lips, when she waved her straw at him.
    There was some scuffling as two men tried to reach for a straw at the same time. One of the security staff, Lieutenant Darren McMiller, in fatigues and carrying a Colt Enhanced M4 Individual Carbine machine gun, stepped over and both men quickly backed away. Colonel Demetrius then extended the straws to the lieutenant. He pulled the second short straw, and both of the other men looked angry.
    “Is there going to be trouble here, gentlemen?” Demetrius asked.
    “No, sir,” they said in unison.
    Paulson recognized them both as wealthy campaign donors. One was Chilton McIntosh, and both had given sizeable donations for the privilege of riding with the vice president on Air Force Two while the president was delivering his State of the Union address.
    The drawing continued, with one short straw remaining. They were down to about ten people. Demetrius drew straws for the pilots, both