“Then let’s get going. We can be back to Camp David in an hour.”
“Bowen, wait. We’re forgetting one thing — our friend at the White House.”
“He’s on his own.”
“We’re just going to let him die?” asked Cameron.
“We’re all going to die, kid. It’s just a matter of when.”
“No, this is wrong,” Michael said. “We need to try and save him.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me that it’s God’s will or something?”
“I don’t pretend to know God’s will anymore, Mr. Bowen. This is just wrong.”
“He’s right,” Cameron said. “What’s the point if we can’t live like humans anymore?”
“The point is survival, boy.”
“What if he’s one of them?” Loeb asked. “He could be the key to this whole thing.”
“One of them? If he’s one of them, why the hell didn’t he say so and point us to the spaceship? This is bullshit, Loeb. There’s no aliens, and there’s no Mayans, and there’s nobody coming to rescue us. I don’t know what happened to everybody, and I don’t care. But I’m damn sure I’m not going to die a Popsicle out here with you.”
“What if he’s been telling us to come to the White House all along?”
“Maybe that’s where the transporter is,” Cameron whispered.
Bowen pushed Cameron aside. “Loeb, have you gotten any messages, any at all, from anyone?”
“Think, man. Whoever took everyone else away must have a mental capacity that is light years ahead of us. What if he’s been communicating with us and we just don’t understand?”
“I don’t hear anybody talking but you, and I’m getting pretty sick of it.”
“Would you just listen to me for a minute? Why did you come with us, Bowen? You’ve wanted to dump me from the first day we met, yet you came with two total strangers to Camp David even though you didn’t want to, and you came here with the four of us even though you said it was a bad idea. Why did you do it? Why? Think, man. Something or someone brought the five of us together. You said it yourself — we have nothing in common. You didn’t see my messages. You didn’t check the Internet. Yet somehow you found me.”
“We should at least check it out,” Cameron said.
Bowen moved nose to nose with Loeb. “I was looking for Carmen, not you.”
“Don’t be stupid. You knew she was gone. Everyone else was. And despite what Michael said about God leading him to us, he found us by what seemed to be pure luck.”
Bowen glanced over at Michael who just shrugged: “He’s right, I was just trying to get a signal for my cell.”
“And we just happened to see Ferret crossing the road in the woods? Six billion people vanish from the planet and we just happened to come across one of the five survivors in the middle of nowhere? What are the odds of that?”
Ferret spit on the metal floor through his crooked yellow teeth. “I was freezing my ass off.”
“How could all of that have been luck? And what made me choose Camp David in the first place? A hunch, an educated guess that there was a top-secret tunnel with a train connecting it to the White House?”
“So?”
“So, Cameron was there. Think, Bowen. He was sending us to get Cameron before we came to Washington.”
“What you’re saying is that we’re the aliens’ escort service, and they send us telepathic waves or something to go pick people up. Right? Loeb, I’ve heard just about enough of your intellectual crap. You want to go weirdo hunting? Fine. Go ahead. And anyone else who’s crazy enough to go with Dr. Nutjob here, be my guest. I’m heading back to Camp David and once I lock that door, I damn sure won’t be taking any callers.”
They followed Bowen back to the Cathedral and down into the tunnel. The train was gone.
“I think your little space buddy is trying to tell us something, Doc,” Ferret said.
“It’s seventy miles to Camp David,” Loeb said. “It’s less than three to the White House. That’s where I’m going, if anyone wants to join me.”
The White House
The five kept to the walkway running alongside the tracks. Yellow numbers painted on the walls every tenth of a mile were counting down to zero. The world was traveling in the wrong direction and had been since 12:21:12 p.m. on 12|21|12. For Loeb, it was spinning out of control.
“Only a mile to go, Dr. Loeb,” Cameron said. “You can make it.”
“I don’t feel well.”
“There’s an infirmary there. They’ll have something to settle your stomach.”
“I hope so. I feel terrible.”
“You don’t think it’s because of the planet shifting, do you?”
“I don’t see how. We’re already traveling through space at millions of miles an hour. A few thousand more in different direction shouldn’t make any difference.”
Michael leaned against the wall, soaked in sweat. “I’m not doing so well either. I think the meds are wearing off.”
Bowen peered down the tunneclass="underline" “Let’s go. We ain’t got all day.”
Loeb took Cameron’s offer of a shoulder. “Yes, it wouldn’t do to be fashionably late for the end of the world, would it?”
For Loeb, the last mile passed like the final march of a prisoner to the firing squad: inevitability carried him forward, and fear held him back. When the yellow numbers reached zero, they were underneath the White House, where their train was parked at the platform. They entered the maze of whitewashed hallways, passing directories listing briefing rooms, situation rooms, and numbered conference rooms, finally seeing “Monitoring Center” listed among them. They found the infirmary on their way there. They were outside the monitoring center’s locked steel doors when a deep-throated rumble passed through the complex like a distant thunderstorm.
“The access card isn’t working,” said Loeb. “I don’t understand. I rekeyed it for full clearance back at Camp David.”
“Try it again,” Cameron suggested. “Maybe it’s a glitch.”
“Lick the little brown strip, Doc,” Ferret said. “That’s what they do in the FoodMart when the cards don’t swipe.”
“I didn’t realize they had card readers on dumpsters, Ferret.”
A vibration like the bass turned up too loud rattled the corridor.
Bowen drew his gun. “What the hell was that?”
Something stirred inside the room, and time stopped for the five men. The doors slid apart, releasing the scent of cinnamon, oranges, and cloves into the hall. Into the doorway stepped a woman. She had long black hair and dark olive skin, unnaturally elongated features, and six fingers on one hand. In the other she was holding a device no larger than a cell phone pointed directly at them.
A single shot rang out. The smell of gunpowder filled the corridor, and a dark red stain spread across the woman’s chest. The device clattered to the floor, and she collapsed.
Loeb knelt down beside her. “Bowen, what have you done?”
“She was going to shoot. You saw it. It was self-defense.”
The woman opened her dark eyes and grasped at Loeb’s arm.
“Don’t,” he said. “Try to stay still.”
Ferret picked up what the woman had dropped. “This ain’t no ray gun, but it’s got a big hole in it where dumb ass here shot it.”
“It looked like a gun. I swear.” Bowen grabbed the device. The symbols on its keypad meant nothing to him. “It looks like some kind of TV remote.”
Cameron knelt down beside them. “We’re the ones from Camp David.”
She smiled at him and whispered two words.
“What did she say?” asked Bowen.
“It sounded like ‘Camp David,’” Cameron said.
“Camp David,” she repeated and nodded.