“There’s not caves under all that,” Remo scoffed. “We don’t know where they are for sure,” Mark said. “If we had attacks on the same scale as the recent attacks, if they continued at only half the current frequency, then we’re looking at about two or three thousand dead every year. Our estimates, based on the suspected subterranean population, and the mounting savagery of their attacks show the average dead doubling by year’s end. We also believe our population count is low. We might be seeing much higher victim counts, on the level of five to ten thousand per year. The resulting panic would send populations fleeing toward the coasts and the major metropolitan areas.”
“Come on,” Remo said.
“Some states would likely be vacated. Kansas, Texas, New Mexico. Those who remained would be picked off or create autonomous military communities”
“Like in Road Warrior?” Remo asked. “I think you’re stretching the what-ifs a little thin, don’t you?”
“It’s happening already,” Dr. Smith said. “Kansas. A whole town emptied out in ten hours, but a local militia moved in and took over the buildings. White supremacists. They claimed to have formed the independent Nation of God Almighty. That was at noon today. This was taken from the NOGA Webcam at 3:00 p.m.”
Mark Howard’s next picture showed a lot of dead people, and one live albino, who was eating a cat. Well, after nothing but human for breakfast, lunch and dinner, day in and day out, who wouldn’t want a little variety in their victuals?
“They were gone before the National Guard arrived, but the NOGA militiamen were wiped out or missing. I think this illustrates that my projection of the future is not at all outlandish.”
Remo nodded. “Guess not.”
“If this continues, if the death toll rises, if they continue to pose an ongoing threat to the very existence of the United States,” Smith said, “then extermination is not out of the question.”
Remo stared at the photo. “You’re right Let’s just pull a Final Solution on ’em. Makes perfect sense.”
“It might make sense, eventually,” Smith said somberly.
Chapter 38
The President didn’t ask for war. Not for this one, anyway. It came and got him.
The second invasion came at one o’clock in the morning, and it came silently, with the darkness, starting in Wichita.
“Not again,” muttered Paul Pirie, who wasn’t supposed to be working the overnight shift anyway. He had seniority, and that meant he got the day shift. It was in the labor contract. But it was also in the labor contract that he had to cover for other foremen of comparable seniority and responsibilities. That was fine when the other foremen properly scheduled their absences. Vacation time required a minimum lead time of three months. Major illness required a package of medical records proving the illness was legitimate and required a lead time of one month. If the illness was suspect, as determined by the elected captain of the local, then you better get sick on your vacation and you better schedule it, like the book says, three months in advance.
Moller, the overnight foreman, had given no notice, the inconsiderate son of a bitch. Just went and died without letting anybody know about it ahead of time, and who suffered because of it? Who had to work extra hours because that A-l asshole Moller had to eat bacon and doughnuts every day for breakfast? Who paid the price? Paul Pirie, that’s who. And he wasn’t going to take it. He had grievances filed against the company and against the estate of the late Mortimer Moller. When the claims analysts told him he didn’t have the basis for grievance, Pirie filed a grievance against the claims analysts.
“I fought for this union, and for once this union is gonna fight for me!” Pirie pounded on the desk of the head of the local, spilling beer. Tom Berry, head of the local, wiped it up without complaining and strolled into the break room to pour another. He returned to his seat and sipped the foamy head off the beer.
“In fact, we’ve fought for you nineteen times since 1999,” Berry said, pushing a frosty mug over to Pirie.
Pirie drained his glass halfway. “This is different!”
The claims analyst looked expectant and took a sip. Pirie took a long, slow draft to stall for time. “There should be somebody else to cover in case of absences,” he argued.
Berry nodded into his mug. “That’s you.”
“Somebody hired only to cover unexpected absences,” Pirie insisted, and took an angry swig.
“Somebody union, of course,” Berry said, suddenly taking Pirie more seriously.
“Of course.” Pirie clomped his beer glass on the desk.
“Get you another?” Berry took the empty mugs into the break room and emerged with them full. He also had a paper plate of Krunchy Kreme doughnuts. “Just got the two o’clock delivery—still warm,” Berry explained.
Pirie chomped half a doughnut in one bite. “Very nice,” he said. Not just the fresh doughnuts—the whole setup was nice. Free beer, free doughnuts. Pirie wondered if he ought to try to get the job as head of the union local next time they had an election.
“Now, I hear what you’re saying, Paul. We need a designated employee who has seniority enough to take a foreman’s role, but who isn’t a full-time employee. Maybe a retired foreman, who can be on call to fill in when an unexpected absence occurs.”
“Yeah,” Pirie said, chewing thoughtfully. “But he’s hired to be the fill-in guy, see. He expects to be inconvenienced. See, it ain’t fair that I got to cover the late shift for that fat ass Moller. I didn’t plan on it, and I ain’t being compensated for it. Well, not adequately compensated.” In truth, Pirie got double time and a half for every minute of the late-night shift. He and Berry estimated that it would take at least quadruple time and a half to adequately compensate somebody for covering a shift if he had not expected to cover it.
“I’ll present it to the company first thing in the morning,” Berry said. “They’ll go along.”
“You think? Won’t they say it’s too much money?”
“They always say that. But if we get an agreement out of them now, then we don’t ram it through at next year’s contract negotiations. It’ll cost them a hell of a lot less to play ball now.”
That guy Berry was the smartest union politico that Pirie had ever known, and he’d known several. Berry kept the local branch of the union working like a well-oiled machine. Damn, the U.S. of A. needed more guys of such caliber, then maybe all the damn unions wouldn’t be withering away, and taking workers’ rights into the toilet with them.
Despite making double time and a half, he was still surly about working the night shift. It was a smaller work crew and he, the foreman, was required to even work the assembly line from time to time. That’s what he was doing when the lights went out—trying to get imperfect plastic doggie heads onto plastic doggie bodies.
There was no plastic head, no matter how messed up, that could be made to go onto its dog body. Sometimes, when you were done, it didn’t look as good as it was supposed to look. But who cared about some, fool cartoon dog from some fool cartoon movie? And the kids got the fool doggie for free anyway when they bought their Hamburger Hooray Meal—so what if the dog had a scorched plastic welt where his mouth should be.
As the sounds of the machinery died away, Pirie was still absentmindedly forcing the plastic parts together. He waited. This might be just another flicker in the power grid, or it might be a full-scale blackout. That meant…
“Time to party!” whooped a nearby line assembler as the emergency lights came on and directed employees through the vast, dark maze of the manufacturing floor of Cut-Above Plastic Components. They were laughing and whooping—what could be better than getting time and a half for doing nothing? Their labor contract guaranteed they got paid no matter what closed the plant, including act of God, act of war, or act of the President.