Bradford Morowitz
switched the floodlights on in the studio and the room went still, as
a theater does in that electric moment before a play begins, those
few seconds between the lights going down and the curtains drawing
back to reveal the actors frozen onstage. The actor now was Charlotte
Remora, standing against the curtain, beside the lectern. She wore a
simple yet stylish light green shift, which accented the freshly
pretty, light-complected face within her trademark cloud of orange
hair. She spoke briefly, the clipped cadences of her voice calmly
professional, as she promised “an extraordinary development” and
noted the exclusivity of her network's coverage.
“Do you suppose
she knows?” Geddes whispered to Joan Stonebraker. Ruth was standing
behind the lectern.
“I doubt it. She'd
be peeing her pants – if she isn't already.”
Ruth was next. Her
face serious, presidential, she simply said, after “good evening”,
that President Morowitz had invited her to be with him, and she
introduced him and stepped aside.
The president's
awkward stride to the dais carried an oddly positive sense of
purpose. Ruth suppressed an impulse to laugh aloud at the contrast
this made with everything else, the surreal circumstances, fear for
the safety of everyone in the bunker, and her knowledge that no
matter how this unprecedented episode might pan out, Morowitz was
utterly dooming a presidency that already had become laughing stock
for most if not all of the world.
She had come to like
and respect him in recent days, since their talk beside the
Reflecting Pool. Until then her impressions had been largely
superficial. Not having noticed him politically until his seemingly
meteoric rise in the party as a presidential contender, she'd been
struck initially by his Lincolnesque features. The absurd
contradiction of his Nixonian voice quickly negated any illusion of
gravitas his physical appearance might have suggested. Yet, she
wasn't overly surprised when this strange apparition managed to fool
enough party people to secure the nomination and from there enough
voters to stumble into the White House. She watched in concurring
dismay as Morowitz the president, stymied by a public perception of
indecisiveness and a hostile Congress, progressively shrunk in the
public eye until at this point he was barely visible.
Back in her seat in
front of the dais, Ruth watched as a hidden mechanism elevated the
lectern to better accommodate Morowitz's height. As this was
happening it became apparent to her the lectern also was narrower
than standard. She turned to Geddes and whispered, “See how narrow
the lectern is? That's so his head and shoulders won't look so
small.” She stifled a giggle as Geddes jabbed her with his elbow.
“Good evening,”
The assured, assuring, deeply sonorous voice startled Ruth even
though there was no electronic amplification in the studio and the
sound was turned down on the five overhead monitors. The president's
image appeared on only one of them. “My apologies for interrupting
the program you were watching...well, that's not true. In fact, it's
pure hypocritical baloney.” Everyone in the studio registered
shock, even as their eyes remained fixed on the president.
“You're turning
into vegetables watching that damned TV. It's one of the reasons I'm
doing what I'm doing tonight. I'm giving you a reality show that's
unprecedented in the history of the world. It's live. Watch it and
you might be eyewitnesses to the emergence of the shadow forces that
are poisoning your bodies and your minds. They might well attempt to
murder me and the fine people in the bunker here with me, including
former president Ruth Rose. Including my son Bradford.
“Which bunker,
you're wondering? You know we have a bunch of them, but that'll be
our little secret for the time being, ha ha. Maybe buy us some time
before these insidious forces roll their brutal machinery into
position and finally come out of the shadows and seize outright
control of the country...”
At some point quite
early in the president's rant other sensations in Ruth's mind crowded
out all audio input save for the occasional odd word or expression.
She suppressed a tickle of panic with the notion that while by all
definitions of mental illness Morowitz should seem feverish or vacant
or at least visibly trembling during this apparent disintegration,
instead he projected a relaxed confidence, eyes sparkling with
mischief.
Ruth turned to
Geddes, who caught her movement and met her eyes. He leaned to
whisper in her ear, changed his mind and pulled out a notepad. After
a moment he held it so she could read, Short Happy Life of Francis
Macomber. Hemingway. She grimaced and nodded. She took Geddes's
ballpoint, and drew several lines under the word short.
Charlotte Remora
rose from her chair, staring at a smartphone simultaneously with the
president's image appearing on a second television monitor. As she
started across the studio toward the adjoining room, smartphone
pressed against her ear, a third monitor was carrying the live feed.
All five were on line when she reached the door.
Morowitz seemed not
to notice the TV reporter's leaving. He was well into spilling the
beans about WACKO, their strong-arm tactics and whom he thought
their operatives represented. As a lead-in, presumably, to announcing
his intention to undergo treatment by “an experimental
pharmaceutical that's been shown to improve our intelligence,
strengthen our character and make us all better citizens”, he
outlined efforts by his administration to prevent this drug from ever
reaching the market.
“WACKO made me do
it. They want to destroy this wonder drug because they're afraid a
citizenry with stronger character and greater intelligence will
resist the consumption-obsessed trance they have us in and rob them
of their obscene profits and, hence, their unbridled power.”
#####
The call came while
Harry Trueblood was watching a news program with his wife and son. It
was his boss, Bart Gladstone, who was shouting so loud his voice
crackled with static.
“Bart? That you?”
“You god damned
right it's me! Get your ass down here!”
“What? What's
wrong?”
“You're not
watching?”
“Watching what,
Bart?”
“Watching! Any god
damned thing! On the god damned tube!”
Trueblood glanced up
just in time to see the image of President Morowitz fill the TV
screen. Morowitz appeared to be speaking, but there was no sound.
“What's up, Bart?
Morowitz just came on but we're not getting any sound...” then the
sound kicked in. Trueblood heard the president clearly say the word
WACKO. “Jesus, he just said WACKO! What's happening, Bart?”
“He's off his god
damned rocker is what. Get your ass down here now! We've got us one
bad fucking crisis. Oh, do you have the number for that hacker guy?”
“Hacker? Oh, you
mean Chapman. I don't have it here, but I'll call Joe right now.
He...”
“Get him down
here, too. ASAP.”
“I'll call Joe
right now...” Bart had disconnected.
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