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Before her was a long hallway with a plank floor. At the end, through a doorway, soft golden firelight flickered into the hall. The floor creaked under her slow progression. The beam of the flashlight revealed the walls, once white, had yellowed by time and weather. A dappled mold had taken hold on the mottled texture where the mason had given a windy flourish of the trowel every few feet. Perhaps it had once been an austere hotel or government building. It was like walking through the carcass of a giant beast, skin still stretched and dried like leather over the bones.
But through the approaching door, a fire had been kindled by a living hand.
How close was she to ground zero? How much radiation was her body taking in? It had been fourteen years since she had been this close… since that day. She remembered the people coming into the MASH camps, led by a relative, friend, or a good Samaritan. Their faces melted down like wax, victims of the flash. Most died in a few days, the rest within a year. The ones who hadn’t been maimed beyond recognition, who could speak, said little, but there were whispers, rumors of a crying baby, and mysterious lights.
At the archway, she paused. She felt the itch for a gun she did not have. John Taylor’s stipulation had been no weapons. She could use the flashlight as a bludgeon, if needed. With a deep breath and determination to be done with this business and get back to America and Christy, she passed through the entrance, ready for battle.
She felt the warm, dry heat from the crackling fireplace on her face. It was a simple room with a wooden floor and cracks in the walls and ceiling. The light green plaster had fallen in places, revealing the red bricks of the underlying structure. On the far wall next to the fireplace was a door through which her predecessor would come. It was painted and cracked like the walls. In the center of the room was a black sitting chair facing the fire, its leather worn and wrinkled.
She returned to the hall and checked the way she’d come. It was an ink-dark well, and she could not see the end. She lifted the flashlight, but it had gone out. She clicked the button. Nothing, dead battery.
She went to the door next to the fire, raised her hand to touch it, and then dropped it, thinking she’d heard a whisper. Indeed, someone was murmuring on the other side, almost rhythmic, almost chanting. She backed up. The handle dipped, and the door opened inward.
An elegant woman emerged. She was professionally dressed and carried a leather briefcase. Before the door swung shut, Allgood saw behind her, briefly, a darkness as void as she’d ever known. An uncanny despair encroached on her. It was as if all the world had gone black save for this one scene.
“Madam President-elect,” said the woman, holding out her hand.
“Madam President,” said Allgood, accepting the hand.
President Knutson gestured to the chair. “This won’t take long between you and me. Please, sit down.”
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“Thank you, but I’m good to stand,” she said. She glimpsed a vein flare on the woman’s regal temple.
“This isn’t a goddamn chamber meeting. You must sit in that fucking chair.” Knutson pointed a trembling finger.
A moment of regret passed over Allgood. Why was she even here? She had enough on her plate without this additional bullshit game. Then came a flash of anger at all John Taylor had hidden from her. But it was part of the deal: win the war, clean up the Asiatowns, enact refugee reform, install a pandemic czar for the Escape drug crisis, solve unemployment, kiss Pastor Tony’s fat ass—oh, and fly halfway around the world to partake in this bizarre ritual with your trillionaire benefactor’s doomsday cult within the kill zone of an atomic blast site—behind enemy lines—a month out from your inauguration. It was a deal she’d made before starting her campaign. For all his support, Taylor’s only real request was for this. Tonight. She rested her hand on the chair. It was cold, so cold.
“You’re confused. I know. And you’re wondering what business we could possibly have together. Not much, dear, but this one… little… thing.”
“I don’t play games,” said Allgood. “Not with you.”
“It was a long battle between us, I know,” said Knutson. “Out there.” Her finger, which was still pointing at the chair, moved to the dark mouth of the hallway. “By all means, continue the political fight. Continue to besmirch me and slander me. But here and now is different. There are different rules that you cannot possibly grasp. You will soon enough, however. Please, have a seat.”
Allgood sat. She felt the chill in her teeth.
“Ahh!” Knutson gasped. The briefcase fell. She crumpled to the floor, clutching her right hand—the smell of burnt flesh filled the room.
Allgood tried to stand, but her legs seemed to have gone numb, and an invisible weight pressed her down like a gravitron.
“I’m alright,” said Knutson from the floor, “I’m all right.”
What the hell was that? Had she spoken? Her mouth was dry, and her tongue felt thick. Her words vibrated in her mind. What the hell was that? It could be poison from a pin in the chair.
“Christ!” cried Knutson. She was crawling toward her, pulling herself with her hands. “It’s fucking uncomfortable, isn’t it?”
The woman used the side of the chair to pull herself to her knees. She rested her head next to Allgood’s face. Turning her hand over, Allgood saw that it was indeed burned, and her fingers looked broken, twisted in all directions.
Knutson, what did you do to me, you bitch?
If she’d been poisoned and this paralysis was part of death, the comically depressing idea occurred to her that the empty suit moron she’d chosen for a VP would ascend to power for at least four years.
Knutson brushed a finger across her forehead. “You’re a strong one. I passed out when it happened to me.” The room rippled, as if someone had dropped a pebble into a still pool and she existed only in the reflection. “Fuck. They’re coming.” Knutson got to her feet, holding firm to the side of the chair.
The room darkened. The fire that had been burning brightly before was dying, as an overnight log burned down to coals by morning.
What? She tried to yell, but only a rasp escaped her throat. She had to focus, had to make her voice work, “What?” She sucked in air. It had taken all her breath to utter that one word.
Knutson looked down on her, true fear upon her face. “The orphans. The Sisters promised we would have time. Liars.”
The driver’s tale was still fresh in her mind. It had been a plot all along. They had lured her here, paralyzed her, and now someone was going to rip her throat out.
Help. “Help,” she managed.
Knutson stooped down so they were face to face, “There is no help. If you live, don’t forget the fucking briefcase.”
The President of the United States stumbled through the archway. Allgood could hear her clumsy progress down the hall.