“Oh, that isn’t the punch line, General, Sir.”
After years of service with Rhodes, including time in the U.S. Army prior to Armageddon, Prescott knew that when his best officer emphasized ‘Sir’ it meant he was nervous or disturbed or really interested in drawing attention.
Rhodes led Prescott further along. The trees thinned and the upward slope eased into a small plateau set in the side of the mountain. That flat space ended at a big wall of earth. There, partially hidden under the roots of a massive overturned Hemlock tree, waited an opening.
A cave.
“Now I know you have to go in there,” Rhodes said, “But you’re not going to like it.”
Prescott instinctively swallowed hard and asked, “Why is that?”
“Because you’re going to lose a lot of sleep from now on, Sir.”
After bidding Jon Brewer farewell, Trevor nearly fell asleep in the big comfortable chair behind the oak desk in the den, but JB walked right in carrying colored paper and a box of crayons to work, once again, on illustrations of the great war.
With his nap thwarted, Trevor spent the morning reviewing status reports on civilian and military operations. Those reports consisted of complaints from command posts and cities and distribution centers that had been raided for supplies. Those supplies had been transferred in the middle of the night to outfit Brewer’s northern expedition as well as to build a stockpile of food and munitions to support Southern Command’s encirclement of the Hivvans.
Settlements previously categorized as ‘low’ on food now faced critical shortages. Military units down to their last two crates of ammunition were suddenly down to their last one crate of ammunition. Tanker trucks in transit to the west or east or north turned away in favor of a southerly direction toward operating centers established by the 1 ^ st and 2 ^ nd Mechanized Divisions.
Before lunch time, Trevor was forced to hang up on the military Governor of western Pennsylvania, endured what sounded like Yiddish swearing from the manager of the Cape May County Distribution center, and successfully dodged two visits by Evan Godfrey and one by Eva Rheimmer.
The shortages and squabbling for any morsel of foodstuffs or ammunition made the name he chose for their new nation- The Empire-sound like a joke. He wondered if he had made the right choice. Perhaps something like ‘the barely capable band of savages’ or ‘one step above starving republic’ might have better fit. He did not feel like an ‘Emperor’.
Trevor used the pretext of reviewing military updates as an excuse to hide behind a closed door in his second floor office (the old Command Center). Unlike the reports from the rest of ‘ The Empire’, the info coming from Southern Command sounded good.
Stonewall reported strong progress in his drive southwest on I-95 while Shepherd drove even further on I-40. It appeared Shep would reach the suburbs of Wilmington within twenty-four hours as he faced little opposition.
Furthermore, aerial recon showed the Hivvans remained disorganized and-apparently-unaware of the closing trap. In a few more days it would be too late; their supply depots would fall and the remnants of the Raleigh corps would be cut off and annihilated.
Despite the number of mayors and Generals cursing their “Emperor” that morning, Trevor finally found a reason to feel good…until late in the afternoon when Knox walked in wearing a somber look and holding a communique.
Trevor felt a bolt up his spine; a tingle of fear. A variety of bad thoughts raced through his mind. Had the Hivvans regrouped for a counter-attack on Raleigh? Were enemy reinforcements pouring from Columbia to intercept the offensive? Either piece of news would derail the plan and cause the entire southern front to tip back into the aliens’ favor.
The Director of Intelligence glanced at Trevor, back at the paper he held, and then handed it over to his boss, saying, “I don’t know what to think of this, so here you go. It’s from Prescott.”
Trevor accepted the paper and read. His eyes scanned the lines, gaining speed as his mind deciphered the message. Trevor stood so fast that his chair rolled backwards into the sliding glass doors of the balcony.
“When did this come in? Where is he? I need to get down there!”
“It came in a few minutes ago. He’s west of Blacksburg, Virginia. Hauser is on standby but you probably want to wait until morning.”
“Why?”
“Because at this point, by the time you get there it will be nightfall and you’d probably rather view the site in daylight.”
Trevor started to move, then stopped. He shook the paper, he shook his head.
“Calm down…calm down,” Gordon tried to sooth.
“I want Anita Nehru and Dante.”
Gordon suggested, “I should go with you.”
“No. I need you here to watch over the military stuff, with Brewer gone and all.”
“Could this be more important?” Knox wondered.
Trevor stopped cold, looked at the words on the paper again, and tried to answer.
“Maybe.”
Later that evening, after telling Ashley of his travel plans for tomorrow, Trevor searched out his son to break the bad news and found him in the den. Other than a trip into town with his mother after lunch, JB spent the entire day in there drawing.
Trevor walked in and paced across the floor, careful not to step on the artwork. JB, for his part, gave his dad a quick smile but returned immediately to his drawings.
“Hey, um, JB,” Trevor stuttered as he leaned against the desk. “Something has come up and I have to go away tomorrow. I shouldn’t be gone long.”
Without looking up, Jorgie said, “I want to go with you.”
Shocked, Trevor could not find any words so JB repeated as if worried his dad had not heard the first time. “I want to go with you, father.”
Trevor stepped away from the desk and stood straight. His hands wavered in the air as if using them to sculpt words.
“Umm, JB, no, it could be dangerous. Not a good idea.”
“I want to go with you.”
“Look,” Trevor stepped closer to his son and leaned over the boy who kept his focus on the drawing. “There really is no chance of that, Jorge. I’m not going to…I’m not. Um, JB, what is that you’re drawing?”
The boy held the piece of paper aloft to his father who took it.
While a crude work of crayons, Trevor could clearly see that his son drew two dogs lying on their sides with a black ‘x’ where each eye should be and a field of red crayon surrounding them. A black stick figure hovered over the dogs with his arms stretched wide.
“It’s the doggies, father,” Trevor heard a sniffle in his son’s words. “They’re in pain.”
The piece of paper wobbled as Trevor’s hands shook. He had not told JB about the problems with the K9s. No one outside of a few I.S. people, Ashley, and the military council knew of the issue.
He swallowed hard, pointed at the black stick figure, and asked, “Who is this?”
JB’s lip stiffened and his eyes sharpened.
“He’s the Other. He’s bad.”
“Who is he?”
Jorgie’s mouth opened and then shut without a sound coming out.
“Tell me, Jorge,” Trevor started in a harsh tone and then forced it to soften. “Have you seen this ‘Other’ before?”
The three year old nodded his head slow. “When I’m sleeping. He’s been in my nightmares a lot. He’s why the doggies are in pain. That’s all I know.”
Trevor knew Ashley would protest, but he also knew that in the morning his son would travel with him to Virginia.
In 1663, Charles II quartered the arms of Virginia on his shield and since that time, the state has been known as ‘Old Dominion’.
Before the end-of-the-world, Old Dominion boasted more than seven million souls in its boundaries. Those same boundaries now counted only one hundred thousand, most living in the eastern part of the state.
Trevor and JB’s Eagle flight carried them south above I-81 with the gorgeous Blue Ridge range to their east and the imposing Appalachians-formed eons ago by colliding continental shelves-rising to the west.