Extermination Day (9 page)

McMiller
broke into the rental office and found the keys they needed, neatly labeled, on a pegboard. Paulson glanced around at the other survivors from the crash. They were a haggard bunch; many were injured. Paulson didn’t do a head count, but it looked like maybe thirty or so total. That meant they’d already lost over half of the original group. Damn, they weren’t having very good luck.

Those who could drive grabbed keys from
McMiller, and the injured were helped into the vehicles. Demetrius helped Paulson into a car and took the driver’s seat.

They left in a caravan of about a dozen cars. They knew time was crucial and that the longer they were exposed to the air, the more likely that they’d contract the virus. As they drove down the long, quiet road leading away from the airport, Paulson looked back and saw the still burning remains of Air Force One lighting up the night. Whoever was responsible for the explosion would pay. He would see to that.

The drive was slow. They pulled onto U.S. Route 60, according to the vehicle GPS. Because of the full moon, the outline of the Alleghenies was visible on the horizon in between passes of snow clouds. The highway was a long stretch of lonely road with leafless trees on both sides punctuated by small farms and several upscale housing developments.

They passed
one vehicle that had skidded off the slick road. Deep muddy skid marks showed where the driver tried to pry it loose from the snowpack. He or she had eventually given up and abandoned the car, probably hoping that a tow truck could come to the rescue later. 

The two-lane road ran along the valley floor and was fairly flat and straight, with just a few curves. It was, however, becoming slicker by the moment as the snowfall picked up. As Paulson’s body finally relaxed, he allowed his mind to wander.

Gretchen should be at home now, asleep at the vice-presidential residence on the grounds of the Naval Observatory. He still couldn’t believe she might be gone. Probably was gone. They’d met when Paulson was at the Naval Academy and had been married fifty years. They’d raised three outstanding sons: Charles Junior, Chuck, who was in the military; Brent, a businessman in Seattle; and Jacob, long dead, but still in their hearts. And there was his little girl Charlotte, a homemaker and mother of three, who still called and talked to her old man at least three or four nights a week. Could they all be dead? Paulson had to hope that they somehow survived this horrible plague. They couldn’t be gone. They just couldn’t.

Demetrius, cursing, suddenly jerked the steering wheel, and Paulson was pressed into the door, his broken leg pounding against it. A stabbing pain shot down his whole right side as the crushed bones scraped against each other, and Paulson let out a scream of agony.

The car spun in one, two, three circles on the icy road and stopped after crashing into the vehicle in front of them. Only Demetrius’s skillful driving saved them from a direct hit. The vehicle up front had flown off the road and run head-on into a tree. Steam poured from the mangled front end. Demetrius jumped out and opened the door of the crashed vehicle.

The motionless driver wore a bright orange bio-suit. Demetrius lifted the body up and tapped on the cracked visor. No movement. In the dim light, Paulson thought he saw blood, dripping in streaks, inside the visor.

When Demetrius unhooked the helmet and pulled it off, Paulson saw the true horror inside. It was Lieutenant McMiller, whose suit had been ripped by the poodle just a short time earlier. His eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly, and his mouth and nose were covered in blood. Demetrius checked for a pulse and then shook his head.

“There’s nothing we can do for him,” Demetrius said. “You two in the back, are you hurt? Hop in our car; we’ll take you the rest of the way.”

As Demetrius got back in the car and backed it away from McMiller, he looked at Paulson and said, “It’s been only thirty minutes since his bio-suit was ripped by the dog. The CDC was right; this virus is an aggressive son of a bitch.”

Paulson said nothing. He had his suspicions that
McMiller had been drinking earlier. Had he run off the road as a result of being infected with the virus, or had he been driving drunk and lost control of the vehicle?  Paulson didn’t recall him coughing or showing any of the symptoms of infection.

Ten minutes later they arrived at the resort. It was just as picturesque as Paulson remembered. A five-star resort with a spa and golf course, it was a secluded getaway that catered to high-end clientele from around the world. The main building was an expansive white 1700s-style colonial manor house with over 700 rooms.

It was beautiful in the snow.

The secret 200,000-square-foot base was housed under the tennis courts. It had been designed as a Cold War bunker in case of a nuclear attack. Information on it had been made public in the early 1990s as the Cold War wound down, and hotel visitors could actually tour the bunker. As far as the public knew, the bunker had been declassified and decommissioned, with no plans for it to ever be used. The resort played up the link to the past by offering themed dinners in the main hall; the James Bond evening was a favorite. However, as Paulson had recently found out, the base was actually still operational and fully ready to house every elected federal official in an emergency.
Military personnel typically staffed parts of the base as well. The top of the bunker was just a small part of the actual base, which had been expanded over the years.

Ironic, wasn’t it, Paulson thought. A fully functional base right out in the open near a major resort. No one ever thought to look in the most obvious places.

“The entrance to the shelter is located in the west wing,” Demetrius told Paulson, “under the medical clinic.” He gestured to the others as they got out of their cars and called out, “Follow me.”

Demetrius helped Paulson out of the car, and they walked through the entrance of the grand old resort. The lobby was spectacular with its glorious chandeliers hanging from the domed ceiling. The walls were painted in wildly elaborate frescos depicting scenes from the Revolutionary War and other noteworthy events of American history.

But there were no guests or hotel workers in sight. Where was everybody? The resort should be crowded with people this time of year. Paulson had a deep ache in his gut, a building fear that something wasn’t right.

Demetrius had downloaded a blueprint of the resort onto his portable, so he knew where to find the bunker.

After crossing through several large lavishly decorated ballrooms, they reached the entrance of the underground fallout bunker where they found the thick steel blast door standing wide open. A security guard post at the door was left unmanned.

The base was coded into the classified net of the U.S. government. That meant Paulson could open the blast doors without a key by simply using a hand print, and facial and voice recognition. Of course the first blast door was a fake, there solely for tourists. The real blast doors to the secret base lay further inside.

Demetrius walked in and the rest of the group followed him through the open blast doors. They walked down a long hallway into a dining hall where the resort conducted the themed dinner parties. Past that was a large lecture hall where the president was meant to address the nation in front of the full Congress. It was staged with Cold War artifacts, including a bulky old microphone, giant mainframe computers with tape-recording data reels, and various other technological relics.

“This way,” Demetrius said. “The real entrance is behind the podium.” He pulled down the large American Flag and started running his hands over the wall. “I was told in a briefing several months ago that there was a switch here.” Before he finished speaking, a click sounded and part of the wood panel slid to the side, revealing a hand pad.

Paulson hobbled up to the panel to place his hand on the pad and then stopped. The panel operated by scanning the palm of a hand, which it could not do while he was wearing bulky bio-suit gloves.

“Damn, of all the things,” Paulson spat out. “Is there any other way to get this damned thing open? A key maybe or a
passcode?”

“Everything was linked up through the
GovNet a few years ago, sir,” Demetrius said. “As I recall, this particular facility is coded alpha four, for high-ranking government officials and members of Congress as well as certain military officers. I’m not on that list, sir. You can ask the group if anyone has clearance at that level. It’s certainly possible.”

“But that would mean that
they
would have to take off their gloves and touch the panel.”

“It would, but it’s most likely that they’ve already been exposed to the virus.”

“We don’t know that,” Paulson said.

“Mr. President, you need to ask.”

Paulson stood behind the president’s podium on one leg and held on to it for balance. He eyed the ragtag group and said, “Does anyone here have alpha four clearance?”

“I’m alpha three,” yelled out one man, his voice sounding hollow and empty through his gas mask.

Not quite good enough, thought Paulson. “Very well, thank you.”

With the help of Demetrius, President Paulson sat in a seat next to the panel. “Well, this part of the base is deep inside the resort. It’s possible the
nanovirus hasn’t made its way in here yet.”

“I’m no biohazard expert,” Demetrius said. “But I’m pretty sure that everyone has the virus on their clothes now. As to whether it’s spread out into the room, I don’t know.”

Danny Phelps, White House intern, jogged up to where they were talking and asked, “Is there something wrong, Mr. President? It’s been forty-five minutes or more since we left the plane. We should really be getting into decontamination as soon as possible.”

Paulson studied the group. Everyone looked tired, many were hunched over, and a few had dropped into the auditorium seats.

Paulson waved one arm. “Everyone, if I can have your attention please. We’ll be getting into decontamination in a minute. We’re just having a few problems with the security codes, but it’s nothing to worry about. Just stay calm and rest; feel free to sit in the auditorium and just be patient with us for now.”

Paulson hoped that would be enough to keep everyone calm and allay their fears. Most of the group meandered into the auditorium and sat, still bundled in their thick winter clothing.

He turned to Demetrius. “We need to do something fast, Colonel.”

“Let me run to the security office. They may have a backup key for emergencies.” Demetrius turned to the man at his side. “Jones, you’re with me.” They started moving and Demetrius added, “We’ll find a key, sir. I know it’s a long shot, but just wait. Don’t do anything rash.” He and Jones ran out of the auditorium.

After they left, Farrow walked up to stand beside him, then contacted him on a private com-link.

“Anything I can do to help, sir? You know I have Alpha Four clearance.”

“No, thank you, Cameron. You’re too valuable to risk.” Paulson was not about to let Farrow be exposed to the virus. If they couldn’t find another way into the decon chamber, then he would be the one to take the risk.

As he sat watching the others sobbing and comforting each other, his mind wandered back to the situation they were in. He couldn’t contain his doubts any longer.

“Cameron, we have yet to see anyone, in person, die from this virus. We’ve only seen videos. We have no concrete proof. What if this whole thing is just a ruse, an elaborate deception by the Chinese? They could be preparing an invasion force right now while we’re here isolated, away from everyone, wearing these ridiculous bio-suits to prevent infection from an imaginary virus.”

“But we talked with General Rowan and
Bellany from the CDC. They showed us the virus.”

“All of that could’ve been hacked and Rowan and
Bellany could’ve been Chinese impersonators using video avatars. We know they have the technology to do that.”

“I. . . I don’t know, sir. I suppose it is possible,” Farrow replied, his
brow furrowing in doubt. “What should we do?”

“We should drive back to Washington,” Paulson said emphatically, making up his mind that this whole thing had just been Chinese subterfuge. “If there
is
an attack underway, I need to be there.”

He paused for a second before adding, “And I’m going to take off this stupid
goddamn bio-suit right now!”

Paulson reached up to unhook his helmet.

Then the sneezing started.

4:30
am, January 16, 2038

Greenbrier, West Virginia, USA

The first sneeze came from a man dressed in a long black overcoat and suit. He wore a tie and had two more ties wrapped around his neck to cover any exposed skin. He sneezed a couple of times at first and then was overcome by a sneezing fit seconds later. Others also started sneezing, as if the sneezing itself was contagious. Paulson couldn’t tell how many, but what at first seemed like just one or two quickly become a dozen or so.

Paulson slowly moved his hand away from the release latch on his helmet.

“It seems I may have been wrong, Cameron.”

Paulson and Farrow were flanked on both sides by two armed Secret Service agents wearing gas masks. A woman in the front row wearing a heavy gray wool sweater started to cough. Paulson didn’t know much about virus transmission, but even though a wool sweater was warm, it still had areas between the threads where a microscopic virus could enter and move close to the skin. As the woman started coughing, everyone else moved away from her. Then she began scratching at her skin and trying to grab at her head, which was still covered by the gas mask. She yelled out, “Help me someone, please,” but the rest of her words were drowned in a fit of coughing.

She reached violently for a man standing close to her, and a couple of people screamed. The man shoved her away as she pulled at his ski parka, unzipping it.

“She’s infected, get away!” someone screamed.

“Can’t breathe . . . skin so itchy,” the woman cried out as she ripped off her gas mask. She fell to her hands and knees as her body was overtaken by fits of violent coughing. Dr. Peebles rushed to her side and knelt.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” the doctor said. “We’ll be inside soon.” Then over the private intercom connection between bio-suits, she told Paulson, “There’s nothing I can do for her except try to ease her suffering.”

Dr. Peebles opened the
MedKit she’d taken from Air Force One and pulled out a syringe. She gave the woman a shot, which seemed to ease her pain. Moments later, however, the woman was coughing blood and mucus all over the floor. Everyone but Dr. Peebles had moved away from her and toward Paulson and the locked bunker door. They were bunched together. The Secret Service agents stood menacingly in front of Paulson and the door, keeping the mob from trampling him.

The woman looked up from the floor. Paulson recognized her as one of his secretaries, Brenda Harkins, a forty-year-old mother of two. Her face was streaming with blood now, from her eyes, nose, and mouth. She struggled to breathe and then collapsed in convulsions, grabbing at her throat. Seconds later she let out a blood-curdling gurgle, and her body stiffened. Then she was silent. She lay on the floor, her mouth and eyes wide open, a look of horror and pain on her blood-splashed face.

Others were screaming now and starting to panic. Several stood weeping, and two had dropped to their knees to pray. “We have to get in now!” hollered one man.

Paulson looked up at the sound of more coughing. The man with the ties around his neck was backing toward the door, as if to escape his own
heaving. He bent over as the attack became more violent. Panic hit the group and a couple of people grabbed at Harold Bigsby, who had regained consciousness on the way to the resort, trying to rip off his bio-suit.

“Give me that damned suit,
Bigsby!” yelled one of the mob as they clawed at the bright orange suit.

"No! No! Leave me alone!" The large man yelled out.

Bigsby did his best to shove the attackers away, but they ripped his helmet off and then peeled the top of his suit away as he kicked and screamed. Paulson could hear the bio-suit rip as four people fought over it. Bigsby tried to get it back, but one of the attackers hit him in the face and he crumpled to the floor. The mob left him lying there in a T-shirt and jeans, the top half of his bio-suit ripped apart. Two of the attackers were holding pieces of it, which they threw down. Then they turned toward Melinda Rider, who was now moving up to the podium beside the others wearing bio-suits.

“Get that suit!” yelled out one voice from the suddenly crazed mob.

The two Secret Service agents moved close to Paulson and the others with the bio-suits, guns drawn. Agent Eugene Schwartz fired in the air. “Back off!” he yelled. “We’ll protect the president at all costs!” He lowered his weapon and trained it on the mob.

Paulson didn’t have time to think. The situation was beyond
volatile and deteriorating rapidly. Calm, conservative civil servants had turned into a crazed, murderous mob. No one was thinking clearly; they were in full-on panic survival mode.

Paulson could sit there in the safety of his bio-suit and watch everyone die from the virus or get shot by the agents assigned to protect him, hoping that Demetrius and Jones would get a key here in time, or he could open the door himself, now, risking exposure and certain death.
Paulson didn’t think Demetrius and Jones would be fast enough. Every second counted, and those seconds were ticking.

Paulson had never been never a coward. He’d risked his life to save others during combat in operations in Iraq and Afghanistan as a young SEAL. He’d sent men and women to die as a commander. He had lived a long, full life and wasn’t afraid to die to save others. He knew what he had to do.

Paulson ripped off his glove and placed his hand on the keypad before any of his security detail could stop him. There were a few beeps and flashing lights as the pad scanned and recognized his hand print. Then the huge blast door swung open. Paulson had already pulled his glove back on. He hoped he’d been quick enough and that his exposure to the contaminated air had been without consequence.

Inside the blast doors was a small entrance room with two other solid metal doors. The door at the other end of the room was marked “Main Entrance” and the one on the side said “Biohazard Entrance.”

Paulson’s security detail picked him up and helped him inside. On the door to the biohazard entrance were detailed instructions in several languages, with pictures, on what they needed to do in case of contamination by biological agents, chemical weapons, or nuclear fallout. They could send up to three people through at a time. They’d be washed down in the first room, remove their clothes, and then move to the second room where they’d be washed down again. Fresh robes would be waiting for them at the end. The process was designed to be automated, and each person could handle their own decontamination with the help of the in-house AI and a few mechanical drones that would do the scrubbing.

The instructions said that for a biohazard incident, individuals would be separated from the others in a private quarantine area after decontamination. There were a hundred of the small cubicles where a person could lie down and be monitored for medical problems.

The government didn’t get many things right, but we did a good job on this facility,
Paulson thought.

“Mr. President, you should go in the first group,” one of the agents,
Schwartz, said.

“No, I have my suit. If I was exposed touching the pad, then there’s nothing I can do about it now. Dr. Peebles should be in the first group so she can prep the medical suite. Also get Secretary Farrow in that group so the doctor can treat his injuries and he can start getting the base set up and ready for operation. Then send through those who have the heaviest clothing and show no signs of infection. Those already sneezing or coughing should be in the back; there is nothing we can do for them.”

It was a tough decision to basically write off as dead those who were infected, but Paulson had to do it. The ones that looked infection-free and who had the most protection needed to get decontaminated first. They had the best chance of coming out alive.

By this time, everyone was crowding the entrance, held back only by Paulson’s security staff. Agent
Schwartz yelled out, “We’ll be sending those with the heaviest dress through first. Anyone sniffling, sneezing, or coughing goes to the back. You need to move forward three at a time.” He tapped the wall. “There’s a light on the door that will tell us when the next group can pass. If you line up single file, we can get through this faster.”

Despite
Schwartz’s firm, thorough instructions, the group was becoming more and more desperate. There were arguments about who was sick and who wasn’t, who had heavier clothing and who didn’t. One man, a reporter named Vernon Hale, who’d proved to be one of Martin Diaz’s most vocal supporters, tried to rush to the front of the line, knocking others out of the way. When he got close to the front and could almost touch the president, Schwartz shoved him back violently. He kept pushing, though, and there was a struggle for Schwartz’s gun as Hale tried to take it away. In the struggle, a shot was fired.

Hale fell back into the crowd and bent over, both hands cradling his stomach. Dark blood seeped through the man’s tan overcoat and out through his fingers. He looked at Agent
Schwartz and the crowd in shock.

“You shot me,” he said incredulously. “I can’t believe you shot me, you bastard!” Hale fell to his knees still holding his stomach. More blood poured through his hands, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He fell forward, face first, as the crowd gasped and screamed.

Schwartz fired another round into the air.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone else,” he yelled, “but I will protect the president. Everyone needs to stay calm. You will get inside!”

The group quieted somewhat with the realization that they could be shot if they didn’t comply.

“You two need to sort the people now!” Paulson yelled.

Schwartz and another agent quickly looked over the group and selected one man who appeared to be uninfected and wearing relatively heavy clothing. The agents hustled him, Dr. Peebles, and Secretary Farrow through the door into the decontamination room, and Schwartz slammed the door behind them. A red light came on, which meant they needed to wait. A green light would indicate that the first decon cycle was complete.

It took
six long, harrowing minutes before the light turned from red to green.

Schwartz
turned to Paulson. “Sir, at this rate it’ll take over an hour before the last person is through to the other side. Can we send more at a time, do you think?”

Paulson had been considering the same idea, but said, “We better not risk it. Most of the decontamination process is automated, and adding more people could compromise the procedure for the others.”

The minutes ticked away as each group of three entered the chamber, the lights flicking ever so slowly from red to green and back again. Paulson lay near the end of the hallway, waiting as each group made their way through. He shifted and turned as best he could, but could never find a position comfortable enough to ease the pain of his leg.

More coughing came out of the auditorium. Agent
Schwartz also began hacking, doubling over. Two more people fell to the floor, dying in violent convulsions as they waited to enter the decon chamber. They were about halfway through, with fifteen or so people left, when Paulson felt the panic start to build again.

One of the women, Pauline Jones from the budget office, pleaded with a security officer. “Let me through, please!” she begged. “My family, my little girl, I need to be alive for them!” The realization that her family was dead had not yet set in for Pauline. Paulson felt sorry for her. He knew that many of them were in denial, himself included. Moments later she collapsed into a fit of coughing.

Paulson glanced at Agent Schwartz, who was doubled over on the floor, coughing blood, holding his stomach. Before anyone could stop him, before Paulson could move or call out, he raised his revolver to his head and pulled the trigger, ending the pain. Blood splattered over the wall and floor. Paulson felt the pain in his own heart at the loss of a good man. Schwartz chose to go out on his own terms; Paulson wondered if he too would soon be faced with such a decision.

The light on the door turned green again, and the next group of
three entered. After nearly forty-five minutes of excruciating waiting, the only ones left were Paulson, Melinda Rider, and Secret Service agent Ray Farwell. About a dozen lay dead in the lecture hall, including Harold Bigsby, the poor Washington Post reporter, who lay in his ripped bio-suit, never having regained consciousness after being attacked. Colonel Demetrius and Agent Jones had not returned.

Finally, the last group was able to enter the
decon chamber. Paulson glanced back into the lecture hall. All was quiet, and there was no movement except for the quivering hand of Colonel Ranier, one of the pilots from the plane, in the last throes of death.

Paulson hopped inside, hanging onto the shoulders of Agent Farwell. The heavy metal door closed behind him and hot water began pouring from the ceiling. It was like a large shower or steam room. Mechanical bots sprayed disinfectant and some type of foam Paulson had never seen before. After several minutes a female computer voice told them to strip down, leave their clothes, and move to the next area.

Naked, wet, with steam coming from their bodies, they walked to the next room and the door shut loudly behind them. Then the next round of cleaning and scrubbing started. The smell was strong, like bleach, and stinging, but not caustic. This time Paulson felt like he was in a car wash without the car. This stage was also completed by mechanical bots. After it was over, Paulson knew he had never been cleaner. His whole body was red and pink, although he was sure he was missing the top layer of his skin.