Burn District 1 (15 page)

“This better be for a fucking good reason,” Phil complained. Ben looked at him, horrified.

“Quiet down, Phil,” he whispered, the others nodding their heads in agreement.

“You must have a death wish,” Terry Kirkland replied. Like sheep, they took their orders that led to the next job, no questions asked. The silent group followed Ralph, walking single file through the door into the vast hallway, huddling by the elevator. The offices were on the top floor, the views of the Washington skyline breathtaking, albeit far away. Clarke liked to say they were
just close enough to wreck havoc
.

Before they got off the elevator, Ralph smelled gun-cleaning fluid, but kept quiet. “Oh fuck,” Phil Arndt moaned. The men glared at him. No reason to think anyone’s life would be in danger, yet; Ralph led the way to the unknown.

“Let’s just get it over with,” Terry mumbled. The lights were off in the reception area; the main door locked, but light was coming from an office down the hallway. Ralph got out his keys and unlocked the front door. He stood aside allowing the others to pass by before he locked up again.

Not alone, Winston Clarke was in his hunting gear, taking the men by surprise. Several hunting buddies were getting ready to leave; Ralph recognized a man from the attorney generals office and a congressman. “What season is it?” Ralph asked.

“Deer,” Clarke answered. “I have one tied to my hood. You missed it coming in?”

“I don’t know how,” Ralph answered, pulling his coat off. The idea that his boss who could barely tolerate bending over to tie his own shoes could go deer hunting was a little surprising. Clarke shook hands with his cronies as they left the office, nodding in the direction of Ralph and the others. Later, Ralph understood the wisdom of it, in case what happened later became known. He’d been hunting and had the alibi to prove it.

“Thanks for coming out tonight, men. I hated to have to do it, but we need to take drastic steps.” He handed printouts to the men; graphs and charts accompanied by sheaths of printed-paper. “Have a seat everyone. We have a disaster coming at us. Study the charts.” He handed his bodyguard a piece of paper with an address on it. “Ralph, tell David to pick up General Eastman. He’ll be waiting.” It was policy to hand deliver assignments whenever possible. Picking a donut out of the box first, Ralph took the repeat trip down the elevator. David Parks was in the front seat with the back reclined as far as it would go, his mouth open, sleeping. Ralph dialed his number instead of knocking on his window. He saw the man sit up and look at his phone, then up at Ralph. Rolling down the window, he stretched his hand out for the paper.

“Sorry,” Ralph said. But Parks didn’t care.

“No problem, sir. Be right back.” The only one of the group to call Ralph sir, he never voiced an opinion or had a complaint and if he was curious, he wisely kept it to himself. He was available around the clock, around the calendar, the only chauffer in Fairfax County who made six figures. David Parks was also a brutal man with little conscience and less scruples.

Walking back to the building as Parks pulled the limo away, the sound of a gun blast echoed around the building, loud enough that Parks heard it and drove back.

“Do you want me to come up with you sir?” he asked, worried.

“No, you’d better get the general. He was cleaning his gun after hunting this afternoon. There’s a deer carcass somewhere in the garage.” Parks nodded and pulled away again. But Ralph had a sick feeling, he doubted what he’d heard had been a gun cleaning accident. Taking the elevator back up to the fifth floor, his head started to pound, a sure sign that his blood pressure was elevated. Unlocking the door again, he walked back to Ralph’s office, keeping the fingers on his right hand crossed.

Evidently, Phil Arndt had crossed the invisible line.

“I told him to shut his mouth but he kept blabbering,” Ben whispered as Ralph looked over his shoulder at the mess in Clarke’s private bathroom.

“You missed it, buddy,” Terry said, smirking.

“It was an accident,” Clarke said, with the rod from his gun cleaning kit in his hand, calmly shoving it down the barrel.

“General Eastman will be here shortly. Shall we move into the conference room?” Ralph suggested. He knew he’d be the unfortunate lackey to have to clean up the mess, too. As for the body, he hoped Clarke had an idea what to do with it.

“Yes, good idea. All of you get in the conference room please. I don’t need to remind you what we do here is confidential.” Ralph noticed that Terry Kirkland looked like he was ready to keel over.

“Kirk, you okay?” He nodded and moved down the hall. Ralph went into the housekeeping closet and got the supplies he’d need to clean up a shotgun blasted body. A large roll of Visqueen used to cover the carpeting when they’d painted would come in handy for rolling the body up. It was clear plastic, which was problematic. Moving bodies wasn’t usually in his normal duties.

Missing out on the intrigue in the conference room, he’d later find out that General Eastman, retired Army, was glassy eyed and exuberant at the meeting, ready to take charge and inspired to stretch the truth. It was his idea to use napalm to eradicate the virus-affected neighborhoods. He took Clarke’s research presentation about the Hurricane Sandy virus at his word, promising to present the
facts
to the appropriations committee as soon as possible. The only way to eradicate the virus was to burn the destroyed neighborhoods and start over.

Keeping promises to rebuild vacation homes for that first burn near Bell Harbor, photos of Winston Clarke standing by, proudly watching as the pile of lumber that had once been his palatial beach home was set fire. The photos graced Sunday papers up and down the Eastern Seaboard, reassuring all property owners that their property would be treated with the same respect. No one mentioned the other burns would be executed from above, napalm bombs dropped on entire inhabited neighborhoods. In time, the burns escalated with overzealous politicos hypothetically using the method to control the virus, but actually to rid the country of its two most daunting problems; illegal immigrants and people on public assistance.

Clarke’s staff had roles. Eastman would head up the allocation for the bombing, choosing the sites based on two factors; publically, invasion of the virus was the deciding factor. But privately, the per capita income of the region, using the latest available census records determined the fate of the community.

Ben had the job of dealing with the dissidents and public relations. He had such a sweet and calming demeanor, the public was lulled into a false sense of Clarke’s philanthropy for a short time.

Ralph would do everything else now that Arndt was gone, including paying off reporters.

And then the coup de grace; the president stepped down from office along with the vice president, both going into hiding. The Speaker of the House, Albert Johnson, a long time friend and supporter of Winston Clarke and The Winston Clarke Humanitarian Fellowship was next in line. But although Johnson was a progressive and believed in the old tenets, the current crisis his beloved country was in called for extreme measures. “Dangerous solutions for dangerous times!” became the battle cry of the new regime.

Chapter 14

The passengers in the few cars Chris and Elise passed on the way to Yuma looked at them with suspicion. It unnerved Elise, who began to question her rationale for joining with Chris, and her parent’s wisdom in allowing her to leave.

“Where
is
this place?” Elisa asked after they’d been driving for an hour.

“We’re almost there,” Chris replied patting her hand. “Haven’t you been to Yuma?”

“No. We were on our way when we found you. We say my grandpa’s place is in Yuma but I can see it’s a lot farther than I thought it would be.”

“You’re in Yuma
County
,” Chris explained. “It’s about an hour to Yuma. But with all of this mess, it might take us a little longer.” Elise was transfixed, looking from side to side of what was left of the road, the charred remains of ancient gas stations and desert hotels dotting the landscape, with larger burnt neighborhoods of modest adobe houses beyond.

“I just don’t get it,” Elise said. “What is there to gain by destroying these little neighborhoods?”

“What’s going on up ahead?” Chris, said, distracted. He slowed down but not before pulling the pistol out of his pocket and hitting the lock button on his door, just to make sure. A young woman was standing in the middle of the road, a car with a grizzled man hunched over in the front seat, an older woman in the backseat, pleading with her eyes.

Hesitatingly, Chris slowed down, but he pointed his gun at the woman. Shouting out the window, he warned her to step aside. “Don’t block my way, miss. I’ll shoot.”

“My grandfather is having a heart attack,” she cried. “I swear, we’re harmless.”

“Tell them to get out of the car with their hands up on their heads,” Chris yelled.

“She just said he was having a heart attack,” Elise argued.

“Sorry, but tough crap.” To the young woman, he yelled out the window again. “Step aside so we can get by.” She moved to the side of the road, put her hands on her knees and started to sob. Chris edged the car up.

“Put your hands on your head,” he yelled at her. “Tell those two to do the same.” She called to her grandparents and asked them to do as he said. Chris and Elise watched as they put their hands up on their heads.

“Now keep them there,” he called. To Elise, he gave the go ahead. “Let’s go out and see if we can help.” They were cautious approaching the car.

“I’m Elise,” she said, her hand on the man’s arm. “What’s troubling you?”

“I’m having trouble breathing,” he said. “I have asthma.”

“Do you have an inhaler?” Chris asked. But the man shook his head.

“We’re running away,” the young woman replied, near hysteria. “He left his medicine back in Gila.”

“There’s a pharmacy up ahead in Yuma. You might be able to find something to help him.”

“Where’s Gila?” Elise asked, looking at Chris.

“Too far away for them to go back now.” Turning back to the man, Elise put her hand on his forehead. He felt cold and clammy.

“Do you have any water?” she asked. The girl reached in the back seat and got out a bottle. “How about paper toweling? Or a tissue?” She dug through a stack of clothing and pulled out a washcloth, handing it to Elise, who poured a little water on it and wiped the man’s face off.

“Slow, easy breaths,” she said softly, wiping his face and forehead gently. “There you go, slow and easy. Where are you headed?”

“My sister’s place in Alpine,” the young woman answered.

“Stay here with him, please,” Elise asked. She motioned for Chris to follow her back to their car. “What should we do?” He looked off for a moment.

“What can
we
do for them? They’ll never get to Alpine because the interstate is closed through the mountains. I guess they can follow us into Yuma.” Chris had doubts about getting to the city after listening to Steve and Randy’s foreboding warning. Having these strangers tagging along eroded the little peace he’d gained by having Elise with him. “Get into the car, please. I’ll tell her to follow us.” Elisa nodded and did as he said. She knew he was trying to protect her, after her family lectured him.

He got back into the car and leaned over to kiss her. They hadn’t kissed before. “I’m sorry I’m being so sharp with you. I just want to get to Yuma and find out what’s going on; not play nursemaid to a group of old people.”

“Maybe we should go back to my grandpa’s place after we check out Yuma,” Elise said, turning around to see if the people were following them. “I can see now why my dad said not to stop for anyone.”

“Me, too,” Chris said. “Now we’re sort of responsible for them.” They drove for a way longer, noting the increased destruction and absence of human life the closer they got to Yuma.

“Don’t look,” Chris said teasing, when a group of motorcyclists passed, each bike overloaded with gear and passengers hanging on the back, looking at the car with frowns or concern. The idea that people were
leaving
Yuma didn’t register with the young couple until they came to an intersection with a working light that had turned red. A Yuma police car parked at the corner must have belonged to the haggard looking woman with a dirty, wrinkled uniform who approached them. She ducked her head to look at Chris and tapped at the window.

Hesitantly, he rolled it down. “What are you doing out?” she asked. Her voice cracked, hoarse from illness or smoking, or a combination of the two.

“We’re trying to find my family,” Chris said.

“No body around here for a couple of days now,” she replied. “Where you comin’ from?” Chris looked over at Elise. He decided he was going to be honest because he was too tired to start lying. And what good would it do any way?

“I was in a plane crash over in Tulip.” The officer rubbed her chin, looking at him closely.

“You Fred Monroe’s boy?”

“Yes,” Chris replied self-consciously. “You know my dad?” She nodded.

“I know him. The authorities led your folks to believe you perished in that crash. They discovered what was goin’ on right afterward. You know, about the conspiracy and all. Your folks fled along with everyone else around here. There’s nothing in town now but vagrants and traitors and troublemakers.”

“I was rescued right after the crash or I would have died.” Chris turned his head away from her and pulled the back of his shirt down to expose the burns, still healing.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “But not as sorry as all those poor people who you killed when you dropped that bomb over a trailer park and all.”

“I didn’t know it would happen!” Chris yelled. “You think my dad would have let me fly the plane if he knew what it was going to do?” The officer had unleashed the guilt Chris had buried after the crash; he knew what had happened because Mike and the other men told him when he was well enough to hear what he’d done. He’d talked with Elise about it, but superficially, never getting to the part about the deaths of innocent people, the murder of whole families.