The Writing Log – The Novel

A Few Opening Notes

• White House of Darkness is a novel written during the month of November 2025. It’s not polished, refined or meant to be. If you want a really good horror novel set in the White House, get Andrew Pyper’s The Residence. If not… read on.
• Read the writing log for more details about the intent and making of the novel.
• This novel, if it was a movie, would be rated hard-R (possibly NC-17) for intense gory violence, pervasive language, sexual references and mature themes. It’s a horror thriller with political intent.
• While this is the second novel in my “Washington, DC, February 2027” thematic series after Mayhem on the Potomac, it is meant to be a standalone story. Readers of On Guard for Weird and Mayhem on the Potomac will spot some common names and references to those novels in the prologue and first chapters, but they’re meant as in-jokes rather than affirmations that it’s all happening in the same universe with the same characters. At best, White House of Darkness is an alter-quel to Mayhem on the Potomac.
• This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
• This being said… this novel is obviously and unrepentantly about the forty-fifth-and-forty-seventh President of the United States. (Honni soit son nom.) Still, names and many details have been modified to give me some creative room. Don’t try to match fictional characters to their real-world counterparts, because I didn’t. As you’re going to see, considerable liberties have been taken.

 

Plans of the White House

Executive Residence, Ground Floor

From Wikipedia, Author SVG: ZooFari; Raster: GearedBull

Executive Residence, First Floor / State Floor

From Wikipedia, Author SVG: ZooFari; Raster: GearedBull

Executive Residence, Second Floor

From Wikipedia, Author SVG: ZooFari; Raster: GearedBull

 

The West Wing

From Wikipedia.  Author: Adam Lenhardt

 

 

Prologue—The House of the Mad King

February 2027—Washington, DC

No nation can continue to exist for long under conditions of intent delusion; even iron-fisted regimes and rogue states have occasional moments of stark clarity. The United States, not sane, stood by itself between coasts, holding darkness within; it had stood for two hundred and fifty years but it would not stand for two hundred and fifty more. Across the land, evidence was ignored, bombast was celebrated, and reality was dismissed as irrelevant. The truth was silenced, and whoever stood for decency stood alone.

“I fucking hate Canada. It’s a shitty country,” said the President of the United States to the reporters gathered in the Oval Office, the Canadian Prime Minister standing by his side.

“Shitty country… yeah… so shitty. Shittiest,” repeated the president, not for emphasis as much as if he had discovered the expression for the first time and fixated on it. His gaze was unfocused and drifted downward as he repeated himself.

Standing three metres away, Katia Bouchard kept her game face on and wondered, What does the word presidential even mean these days? And more importantly, Why am I not even surprised?

“Shitty… shitty… shitty…”, mumbled the president again, looking at the floor.

As the Canadian Ambassador to the United States, she was used to the way the Blunt administration worked. She had weathered the trade spats, the puerile temper tantrums, and the unseriousness of the people in charge. But what should have been surprising about Blunt’s latest statement wasn’t the statement itself. It was how everyone reacted to it.

Rather than ignite a firestorm of questions about presidential language and intent, rather than lead to pointed questions about the president’s mental fitness, the press corps collectively shrugged—another day in the Oval Office.

“Prime Minister Varney! Any comments?” asked one of the journalists.

“Well, obviously, President Blunt is a man of many strong convictions,” smoothly handled the Canadian. “We will disagree in this case, albeit from a better-informed position. But let’s not let this distract us from the power of President Blunt’s office.”

And there it was—the subtle jab sandwiched in between superficial praise. Enough to make it sound as if Blunt was right, and yet a soundbite that would make social media happy.

Predictably enough, Blunt caught the part of the statement that directly concerned him.

“Yes, powerful and strong…” he said, his attention snapping back. “But the way Canada has treated us during those negotiations… so shitty… never has a country treated us so badly.”

Tabarnac, I suppose Pearl Harbor never happened?, thought Katia. 

She’d been extensively briefed throughout the trade negotiations: At every turn, the Canadian team had outskated the team of junior interns and C-minus graduates that the US had sent, extracting concessions from the Americans for every meaningless compromise Canada gave up. Don’t bring your backbenchers to the Stanley Cup finals.

At least the ink was drying on the trade agreement—if agreements counted for anything in the Blunt administration.

“If I can add something,” said Varney, “Canada would like to provide a token of our gratitude to President Blunt given his incredible leadership of these negotiations.”

He looked to his side and nodded. Two White House interns grunted as they rolled a heavy cart, draped with thick golden fabric, to the middle of the Oval Office. The wheels of the cart squeaked from the load.

“We wanted to thank President Blunt for his unwavering support during this prolonged process.”

Katia almost frowned. This encounter had been stage-managed to the smallest details between the delegations of both countries, but she had been expecting a plaque, not whatever this was.

Varney clearly knew what was underneath, and with understated theatrical flair, he removed the fabric. There was a small gasp from the jaded press corps.

“We melted down fifty pounds of pure Canadian gold in order to produce this likeness of President Blunt. We hope that it symbolizes his leadership in these challenging times.”

As the clicks of the camera shutters filled the small Oval Office like the drone of a locust swarm, Katia took in the bust. It was… well crafted, as those things went. It portrayed a younger Blunt in imperial fashion—hard defiant stare forward, not unlike Karsh’s Churchill photo.

“Oh, well, that is nice,” said Blunt, whose stare suddenly flickered with enthusiasm. “Very nice… so nice… you Canadians are so nice…”

Trying hard not to heave at the blatant bribe and manipulation, Katia barely paid attention while Varney highlighted the four-million-dollar value of the near-solid bust. Blunt, almost happy, said that the bust would stay in the Oval Office, and, for a moment, she swore she saw the hint of a smile on the Prime Minister’s normally stoic face.

After that, it was all over, except for the last few questions, empty answers and final handshakes. Katia and Varney were ushered out of the office together, efficiently led from the Oval Office to the motorcade next to the West Wing’s northern entrance. The two of them were the only passengers in the black SUV ferrying them back to the Canadian Embassy.

After the three-car convoy drove south and turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, Katia couldn’t hold it any longer. 

“What was that?” she asked as the White House dwindled in the distance.

Varney shook his head and touched his lips, where there was another hint of a smile.

Katia took the cue. Varney—Jack—was an old friend of hers. They had studied law together, and while her career eventually took her to diplomatic postings, his had diverged to policy think-tanks, a few very visible public policy books and a reputation as the intellectual to call whenever Commonwealth governments had a tough problem to solve. Improbably enough, he’d won party leadership based on his dark-horse appeal as a deep thinker and then, weeks later, a general election.

But, as their motorcade fought through late-afternoon Washington traffic, she knew that this latest performance in the Oval Office was not like him. Giving a golden bust as if it was a cheap trinket to a tinpot dictator? 

The problem was: it worked. Blunt was left with a happy feeling, and that would be enough until the next crisis, hopefully not aimed at Canada. But then again, this is what they had to deal with. The American people had chosen an egomaniac, visibly declining, perpetually angry blowhard who did not surround himself with competence. No one was even asking about the man’s obvious sundowning these days. Katia had seen the American media cower during the past two years, and the landslide results of the midterm elections only affirmed that the Americans wanted even more of that.

The car finally made its way to the embassy. Katia and Jack were led to the lobby. An assistant came up to them.

“Prime Minister, I have what you asked for,” said the assistant while handing him a heavy box wrapped in a dark bag. He looked puzzled.

“Thank you. We’ll be in the skiff for a few minutes,” said the Prime Minister.

The Canadian Embassy’s Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF) was a box-in-a-box located underneath the building. While it took up a volume that could have been dedicated to several precious parking spaces, it was only accessible from within the secure area of the embassy. Katia and Jack had to climb down stairs and make their way through two sets of doors. Once inside she was once again struck by the place’s intense claustrophobia.

SCIFs were not meant for long-term occupation: they were highly secure areas meant for discussions that absolutely could not be overheard by others. In Washington, this meant outwitting the NSA, which, despite the Blunt administration’s mishandling, was still the planet’s top eavesdropper.

Katia knew the specs of the room: Thick layers of concrete lining with air gaps to prevent any stray vibrations and two nestled Faraday cages to keep out electronic signals (which meant her cell phone would not have worked down here, even if she hadn’t surrendered it at the first door). The room itself was square and surprisingly tiny considering the outside size of the SCIF. A table, four chairs and a cheap carpet were the only concessions to human comfort. Up to four people could have a chat, as long as they liked each other. 

The door was shut behind them, and Katia’s ears felt the change in pressure. 

“So, you’re going to tell me what this was about?” she asked.

“Just a minute,” said Jack. 

He took the chairs and, one by one, put them on the table.

Then he opened the heavy black bag that the assistant had given him and took out two boxes of plain non-iodized salt. 

Katia blinked and frowned, but what Jack did next confused her even more: He rolled back the carpet to reveal a small built-in circular indentation in the SCIF’s floor. 

Then he poured salt in the recessed indentation.

“Help me out,” he said while getting to his knees and making sure the salt filled the indentation without any gaps.

“You’re scaring me, Jack,” she said as she poured the salt in her section of the circle.

“One moment, please,” he said noncommittally.

He inspected their work and, satisfied that the circle on the floor had been filled to his specifications, rolled back the carpet, put down the chairs and sat at the table as if nothing particularly strange had happened.

Katia noticed that everything—the table, the chairs, them—was inside the salt circle. Her scalp prickled.

“Jack, you’re the most rational person I know. Why did we just do a pagan ritual in a SCIF?”

“Witchcraft ritual,” he corrected, finally breaking out in a smile.

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“A salt circle wards off magical energies.”

“I don’t believe this,” she said, shaking her head. “You despised supernatural shit back then. Who are you?”

“Same person you knew back then,” he said, “except better informed.”

“Well, it’s time to tell me what’s going on.”

Jack’s face quickly lost his smile.

“What I’m about to tell you is classified at the highest level.”

“I’ve got NATO COSMIC clearance.”

“Higher than that.”

“Higher?”

“Higher. There’s no clearance for what I’m about to tell you.”

“Should you, then?”

“Probably not, but I need you to do something, and you won’t if you don’t understand how serious I am.”

She sighed. “This is stupid, but fine.”

“You may not believe in magic or the supernatural,” he said as seriously as in discussing matters of state. “I didn’t. But then I learned better.”

“As prime minister?”

“Yes. The Canadian public service has a small organization dedicated to studying, identifying and neutralizing supernatural threats against the nation. It’s a division of Library and Archives Canada, but that’s not important right now.”

“Um.”

“That incident in Toronto a few years ago…”

“The movie publicity stunt that took out Weston Tower?”

“That wasn’t a stunt. Look, just trust me. I’ve seen things that should not exist. I’ve seen the results of their interventions.”

She leaned back in her chair. “And we’re talking about this why?”

“Because you’re dying to know why we just gave a solid-gold bust to the Oval Office like this was the most obvious bribe to a banana republic.”

“Yes.”

“About fifty years ago, the RCMP was called to a residential school.”

Katia frowned at the abrupt change of topic, already not liking where this was going.

“When they arrived on-site, all the students were huddled in a garage at the periphery of the school, the farthest they could get away from the school building. When the police entered that building, they found the teaching staff in pieces.”

“In pieces?”

“Torn apart. Dead. All of them. All the first-nation students lived; all the white Caucasian adults died.”

“Geez. Did they…?”

“Not them. Not directly. But as our supernatural investigations unit took over the case, they realized something crucial. A girl had died in the school a few weeks earlier. Abused by the staff for months. They cut the hair off the corpse and burned her in the school’s backyard.”

“Fuck.”

“The school staff kept the hair as a sick souvenir. I won’t go through the details, but the hair was so… imbued by suffering that it acts as a catalyst for dark forces. For revenge. Our specialists isolated the hair after a few unpleasant incidents. Fatal incidents.”

“I’m still not sure how this relates to what just happened.”

“The bust is not solid gold. There’s a cavity inside.”

“Oh no. Did we just…”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

Varney gestured as if to take in everything.

“Do I need to spell it out? That administration is dangerous. I know where this is going. You know where this is going. Anyone knows where this is going. The midterms were no salvation. And I took Villetta’s death personally.”

As did every Canadian—Villetta Brooke was an Ontarian studying in Chicago who followed her friends to a peaceful protest. She was young, cute and harmless. Then the peaceful protest was ended by a hail of gunfire from ICE agents, leading to fifteen deaths—one of them Canadian. Not that it had been the first or the last protest death in a country increasingly prone to violent law enforcement.

“So, what will this do?”

“The White House is a building with a long and bloody history. Built by slaves. Home of many bad decisions. Playground of high-level power games. It will wake up.”

“And then?”

“No one knows for sure.”

Katia looked at him.

“That’s bullshit. You haven’t spent four million dollars on a harmless prank. Your supernatural team can foresee what’s going to happen, right?”

“I guess I just don’t know about that,” he said disingenuously.

“Do better.”

He took a deep breath.

“We cannot predict what will happen, but let’s put it this way. I take full responsibility for dragging that Trojan bust inside the White House. The last time a member of the British Commonwealth entered that building with such destructive intent was in 1814.”

She shook her head, then stopped as a thought struck her.

“Wait—if we have supernatural specialists, the Americans must have them too. This is why we’re talking in a circle of salt, but surely someone outside is wise to this trick.”

“Blunt will insist on keeping the bust near him. He’s volatile, but predictable.”

“Of course, but surely someone else will see this threat for what it is and neutralize it. Blunt aside, there are competent people out there. Their supernatural team must be ten times the size of ours. We must be in contact with them. Why are we even attempting this?”

She looked at Jack, who revealed nothing.

“Either they’re fine with this, or they’re no longer there,” she realized.

Jack smiled, as if a teacher whose pupil had correctly solved a difficult problem.

“Supernatural national agencies usually work at arm’s length from their government. On one side, threats can come from within the government and on the other, most politicians want deniability in case they’re asked questions. But the national agencies do collaborate with each other. They draw up plans in case they are no longer able to take care of their own business.”

“This was their idea?”

“A few months ago, our agency completely lost contact with their American counterparts. From what we heard beforehand, there was a struggle inside their agency, and then nothing.”

“Fail-safe if things got out of hand.”

“Then our agency received a very detailed plan to be implemented in case something like this happened. Updated only a few weeks earlier after conversations with our agency.”

“And this was the best plan.”

“Maybe not the only plan.”

“Oh God,” said Katia while holding her face. “What are we doing?”

Then, after a pause, she added: “You said you wanted me to do something.”

“Effective immediately, you and the entire embassy staff are recalled to Ottawa for consultations.”

“Everyone?”

“You are to shut down the embassy and instruct all Canadians to go back to Canada. Local staff will keep being paid for the duration of the closure. May they have enough sense to take holidays far from here.”

“On what pretext are we shutting down this place? You think the AI bubble crash is going to happen?”

Jack waved his hand. “Come up with something. Pest infestation, maybe.”

Katia nodded as she realized the magnitude of it all.

“We’re going to look like idiots,” she said, clinging to a semblance of the reality she knew.

“I thought I had convinced you, Katia.”

“Oh, I’m onboard. I don’t believe you, but I believe in you.”

“Thank you.”

“But there’s still a chance we’ll look like idiots.”

“On the contrary, I think that…”

He drew a deep breath.

“…that once this is over, they’re going to look at us in fear, wondering how we knew what was going to happen.”

 

 

 

Section 1
Toward the House

 

 

 

Chapter 1 — Haunted Houses

Dave looked at the eye of the camera as if it was his best friend, took a deep breath and began his recap.

“So, dear debunkers, what’s left? We’ve spent our first day here at the Trammel House seeing how it appears to be haunted—a strange feeling of dread when entering the basement, people tripping over the stairs, weird noises, strange smells, and a door shutting by itself.”

Pause for effect, skeptical eyebrow raised. Then, as agreed with Gabrielle, he moved left so that she could follow him and feature the refurbished furnace in the background of the shot.

“Then we’ve spent our second day at the Trammel House finding all sorts of explanations for those things. We came in this basement and found out that the furnace fan was vibrating at nineteen hertz, a frequency known to produce headaches and unease in many people. We poked around the walls of this hundred-year house and found mummified mice, which get fragrant in hot humid temperatures. We discovered that the previous owners were deep smokers, and as we know, that smell never goes away.”

Steadily moving toward the stairs leading to the first floor, he kept his speech measured, conscious that he’d later add footage already seen earlier in the episode to illustrate his summary. 

“We also took measurements and found that some of the rooms of the house had an incline of a few degrees—you remember the marble test. Not much, but enough to get people tripping in stairs and have this almost subconscious feeling that something is off in this place.”

He stopped for effect at the bottom of the stairs.

“There’s really one mystery left to solve, right? The door that shuts itself.”

He paused and pointed up. Perfectly synchronized, Gabrielle kneeled and panned up to take in his silhouette set against the white rectangle of daylight. Absolute cinema.

“Cut!” said Gabrielle.

The camera light went out and they hustled upstairs. If they kept at it, they could be done and out within an hour. Not that the Trammel House was unpleasant, as far as these things went, but time was money and if they got a head-start, they could edit a few minutes of footage in their hotel room before retiring for the night.

As expected, the widow Trammel was expecting them in the living room up the stairs. A charming woman of about sixty with affirmed white hair. Someone who was going to put the house up for sale in the next few months. Superstitious enough to believe her house was maybe haunted, but not so much that she didn’t accept explanations. After all, she had agreed to have them spend a few days here, right? Even though it was her son who had actually contacted them, most likely worried about the resale value of the property.

“Is everything all right?” she asked as Dave and Gabrielle prepared their next set up.

“Everything is according to plan,” said Dave. “As we’ve discussed, the next bit is going to involve you.”

She smiled—being on camera wasn’t her thing, but Dave knew photogenic people, and she had this cute-grandma thing going for her. So far, her camera instincts had been impeccable.

“Ready when you are,” said Gabrielle. 

She had framed them both against the open basement door. Dave knew that the camera would stay on him and the door, uninterrupted, for the next minutes.

He nodded to the widow Trammel, and she nodded back.

“Go!” said Gabrielle.

Dave turned to the camera.

This one’s for you, Mike.

“So here we are, at the last mystery unsolved. The door that shuts itself.”

He raised his eyebrows and smiled with a twinkle. I know something you don’t…

“Ma’am Trammel, I’m going to ask you to go start the shower upstairs. As hot as you can make it. Then please come back here. If I’m right, you’re going to want to see this.”

As the widow went upstairs, David turned back to the camera.

“Most of what we’ve seen here so far is pretty ordinary for so-called haunted houses. If you’ve been through our archives, you’ve seen it all—a mixture of old construction, poor maintenance, and quirks of human psychology that were meant to protect us during a more primitive age, but are now fuelling our paranoia.”

On cue, because he had timed his speech, the shower upstairs started. Hopefully, she’d remembered to make it as hot as she could—that would speed things up.

He blinked intently and acknowledged the shower noise by silently pointing upwards. They’d probably need to edit in some sound effects here if the audio capture wasn’t good enough. Might as well stay silent during this part.

“But the closing door is something more unusual. I’ll admit it; it had me stumped.”

Well, not really, but sometimes you have to play dumb.

“Then I remembered helping my dad on home renovation projects, especially in older houses like this one. As I often say, a house is just not a box we live in: it’s a living combination of several different systems—plumbing, heat, electrical, ventilation, even telecommunications—and some of those systems don’t always play nice with each other, especially if they’re modified every few decades. The house itself is not to blame—it’s usually the little shortcuts and compromises taken by workers eager to get their day’s work done and go back home.”

The widow Trammel entered the room. If Dave was right—and if not, they’d edit around it—they had a few more moments before something happened.

“Now let’s keep an eye on this door.”

It took only a few seconds, but Dave’s mind raced through those seconds. Aside from the door, the Trammell house had been ordinary—sure, the widow’s homespun charisma was going to be a plus, and Gabrielle’s skill with the camera meant that every episode was increasingly more cinematic. But for a channel based on rational debunking of supernatural phenomena, they had to introduce new things. He’d resisted the cheap thrills of open-ended shows so far, but their subscriber numbers weren’t rising as fast as they’d like. Now, would that door provide?

Then, as if to oblige, the door creaked and shut itself. The widow Trammell made a very pleasant little noise of surprise as the door closed shut.

“Did you see that?” she said, wide-eyed without the least trace of a contrivance. Bless her.

“Oh yeah, we all saw that.”

Behind the camera, Gabrielle gave a thumbs-up—they wouldn’t have to re-shoot this.

“So, what’s the explanation?” asked the widow, almost too conveniently stepping in as the audience surrogate.

“Let’s open the door and I’ll show you. In fact, I think I can even get it to do it again.”

He opened the door and stepped down a stair. Then he pointed at the left side of the door in the unfinished basement. In his mind, he already saw the inset shots they’d filmed the previous day.

“See this metal pipe? That’s the drain from the shower upstairs. Now see these copper ties attaching the pipe to the door frame? It’s so tight, and with time warping the door frame, when hot water pours down the drain, it expands the pipe ever so slightly that it creates pressure against those ties. The wood moves from the heat and pressure and—if you wouldn’t mind stepping back, please…”

He let the door go, and it shut itself off again. He looked at the widow.

“There we go. A good plumber can fix this in half an hour by either replacing the ties or switching the pipe from metal to code-compliant PVC.”

He turned back to the camera.

“And there goes the last mystery of Trammel House.”

“Cut,” said Gabrielle.

They had already filmed the wrap-up earlier, but maybe they would tag another epilogue from outside the house—the sun was setting and Gabrielle would be drawn to the vivid colours.

“I’ll go take a few insert shots of the house,” said Gabrielle.

“And I’m going to shut down that shower,” said the widow.

As both women left the living room, they also left Dave with the usual hollowness that followed a thorough debunking. Another swing at the bat, another home run for the rationalists.

Sorry, Mike, maybe next time.

The episode would be pretty good, he anticipated—the widow was likable, the house was interesting, and the door was a great capper to the episode. If they could explain the usual phenomena in an interesting way—maybe by playing with custom animations—the episode could be a calling card of sorts for the kind of stuff they usually did. Maybe the kind of thing that would attract new viewers.

On the other hand, Dave knew this wouldn’t be the viral hit they needed. On their way back to their cramped apartment within driving distance of Toronto, he and Gabrielle would probably have another round of micro-arguments about whether to keep doing this or not. Thanks to merch sales and sponsorships, they weren’t starving from their channel—but they weren’t getting anywhere, and certainly weren’t saving for a real house, let alone a family.

The thrill of shooting the episode fading fast, he was back to the less pleasant reality. 

Not exactly what Mike and I were imagining back then.

“So, I guess I’m not the owner of a haunted house,” said the widow Trammell when she came back into the room.

“I guess not. I’ll send you instructions for a handyman to fix what we’ve found.”

He had fixed the infrasound problem himself by cutting away part of the fan, but things like the pipe, the drafty windows, and the leaning floors would take more professional attention.

“Thanks, I’ll do that. At least we can put the house for sale without having to declare that it’s haunted.”

“You can even put in the link to our episode.”

She smiled, but she sounded like Dave felt—satisfied, but disappointed by the reality of it. This was a common-enough reaction at the end of his shoots: people said they didn’t want to own haunted houses, but, in the end, they were cooler than a regular house. Debunking it took something away. Sure, the house resale price would be higher—and his video would help make the house a local celebrity for a few weeks—but it would no longer be whispered about.

He chit-chatted some more with the widow, but he understood that he was done here—he had removed the magic and was no longer welcome much longer.

Gabrielle was done within fifteen minutes. She knew what she was doing, and one of their points of pride was their shooting ratio—they shot roughly eight minutes for each minute used, which was pretty good for the kind of show they produced and that helped keep their costs low. She’d often shoot things that wouldn’t make sense to Dave, only to pull that exact shot while editing days later.

They said their goodbyes to the widow, promising that she’d get a chance to watch a rough cut of the episode first and send them notes. Then they hopped into their rental car.

To keep costs low, their hotel was a cheaper one on the outskirts of Minneapolis. It would take twenty minutes to get there—enough to catch up on email while she drove.

She put on the radio. The economic news wasn’t good—Dave got lost in most of it, but the gist was that a few big companies were pulling back on their AI investments, and that had the markets spooked. It had been a third day of negative closings across the board.

Not that the other news was any better—anti-government protests, arrests, even a food riot in Pensacola. Another airplane crash, blamed on the overworked air traffic controllers. Increasingly heated rhetoric about another Executive Order banning state regulations—with some even talking about secession.

Davd shook his head. He tuned out the news quickly these days. Instead, he focused on the emails that had accumulated while they were shooting.

One title held his attention. The subject matter seemed too good to be true, but it had come through their verified tip line.

He read the message and his eyebrows went up. Chief engineer of the… really? Was this a prank?

But no—the accompanying documents looked genuine. He’d call back, of course, but if this was true…

“Gabi, I think we’re going to have to change our flight.”

She glanced at him briefly, warily.

“How so?”

“We’re going to Washington, DC.”

This time, she took her eyes off the road and looked at him longer. 

They had another of their micro-arguments.

In five years of marriage, some of their ongoing arguments had become so familiar that they didn’t even need to be rehashed out loud. A glance took them through the entire checklist, and this one was “the Canadian Way of Life” argument. It roughly went like this:  Dave was American-born and Gabrielle was a proud Canadian. They’d met while he was studying at the University of Toronto and while their channel began in the US and was set there, they had since moved north. He now had dual citizenship. On those facts they both agreed. 

Where things were still in flux was what to do next. There were enough opportunities in the Toronto area for two skilled filmmakers that they could close down their channel and take on staff jobs at one of the many production houses in the area. They would make more money, enough to settle down, purchase a house and start planning for a family.

But Dave wasn’t ready for it yet. They were still in their twenties, after all, and their channel took them on tax-deductible trips throughout North America. 

The Blunt administration’s policies had pitched up the urgency of the argument. Born of Haitian parents, Gabrielle was dark-skinned enough that she didn’t feel safe in the US, and with the tension between both countries, her Canadian passport was no longer as innocuous as it had been. Meanwhile, Dave had never told his subscribers that he was now a naturalized Canadian citizen living in Canada. Sure, content creators like him often obscured their residence for security reasons—but that was taking it too far, said Gabrielle.

Lately, the argument was metastasizing into “Dave, become a Canadian” and that’s the part he liked least.

He looked away before she did, a micro-defeat that meant she would extract some sort of concession.

“I don’t like changing plans either,” he said to smooth things over. “But this is going to be our big-ticket episode. We have to make a few sacrifices, Gabi.”

“Washington, DC,” she said flatly. “Dave, you heard the news earlier today. They just asked all Canadians in the US to return home. The embassy itself is closed. They’re saying this isn’t a safe country.”

“Gabi, we’re been invited to shoot an episode at the White House.”

🏛️

No one in the world hated the White House as much as Harry Newson. 

But he had a good reason for it: as the chief engineer for the building, he was responsible for its maintenance.

“Morning, Harry,” said the security guard as he swiped his access card to the building.

“Morning, let’s hope the furnace doesn’t blow up today.”

It hadn’t exactly blown up the week before, but it had gone out—leaving the staff to feel the seeping February chill. Harry and his team had duct-taped a solution together within three hours, but the top guy’s tolerance for heroics was nonexistent, and before the day was through, the threats had come down that he’d fire them all and get a crew from one of his real estate properties to fix everything. 

This would have had more impact had this not been the third time it had been threatened, or the disaster of what had happened when Blunt did exactly that, and fired the chief engineer that had been in place when he moved back into the White House. Blaming “DEI” because the engineer had been black, the administration had then put an unqualified square-jawed white guy in charge… and that guy had lasted three weeks before being fired for persistent water pressure issues.

The previous chief engineer had flat-out refused to be hired back (his email reply had simply been a self-portrait with two extended middle fingers—Harry had been put in BCC), which led the administration to promote Harry from within. Reluctantly, given Harry’s skin colour. But at least Harry knew the nuts and bolts of the temperamental machine that was the White House—within hours, the water pressure was back to its normal level and he would never tell anyone what role he may have played in the lowered pressure in the first place.

But now, the building was his headache to manage. Even with the preventive maintenance he managed to put on the schedule, there were still issues left and right. The botched reconstruction of the East Wing was a constant diversion away from more serious issues, and sometimes the furnace acted out for attention.

Unlike the public occupants of the White House, Harry had his office deep in the basement of the Executive Residence.

Well, “office”—it was where he put his lunch box and coat, then grabbed his overalls and tool belt. The White House’s mechanical shop was a cramped space in the White House basement, filled with more tools and building materials than people. His crew of two was overworked and he knew it—Blunt loved to cheap out on the logistics in order to blow the budget on fancy trash, and it showed in the backlog of things they had to do. His old position hadn’t even been backfilled, which meant that he was effectively doing both jobs at once.

Two more years of this, Harry thought, and then maybe we’ll get someone better. Although with the midterm results, he wasn’t optimistic. Oh well; if all became too much, he could always go live near his parents in Georgia. After twenty years in DC, he’d been thrifty enough to accumulate a tidy saving account. Houses were cheaper down south and getting cheaper by the month given the recession.

In the meantime, there were things to do.

His two assistants were clearly on their way out.

“We’re scheduled to replace the furnace filters this morning, guys.”

“Sorry, boss,” said his first assistant, “Upstairs just called and there’s a networking issue in the West Wing.”

Harry sighed. The weak connection in the Roosevelt Room, again.

“All get, get it done.”

“At least we’ve got the new switch this time.”

“Let’s try to keep it working more than three days in a row, all right?”

Both of them left, carrying the spare part that should take care of the issue.

Harry sighed when he opened his emails. His phone hadn’t rung while off-duty, but what sort of new problem would have accumulated since yesterday?

He grinned when he saw one of the messages that had come in overnight. There was the reply from that influencer, saying he was interested in touring the White House for ghost stories. Three of them would come in for the shoot—Dave, his wife-and-cameraman, and an invited guest academic to talk about the history of the White House. He didn’t recognize the name—who was that Sonia Sheer?—, but she was billed as an American history academic. In a few clicks, Harry sent their pass requests to the central system—the people upstairs would do the security checks over the next week. The academic expert was unexpected, and Harry wondered what else that Sheer lady could say that he didn’t already know about the building, but at least that meant he wouldn’t have to appear on camera. Plus, she’d further light the fire that Harry was expecting to create.

Harry liked to portray himself as a straight-arrow engineer, uninterested in politics and power-plays. But that was a lie—he had a strong scheming streak, whether it was plotting the firing of an incompetent chief engineer, or putting in place the justification he needed for a bigger maintenance budget. He’d found the D.Bunker video channel a few weeks ago while idly surfing for stuff to watch while eating late suppers. That white kid seemed straight to him—he wasn’t interested in spooky tricks-for-clicks and, even after a few years of episodes, still wasn’t nudging toward supernatural doubts. He thought like a building engineer, his explanations were clear and his shots were clean. His insistence that houses were a collection of systems directly spoke to Harry. In other words, Dave Bunker was the right kind of guy to make a good video on the White House’s issues and get some media attention that would ensure that Harry could get the extra resources he needed to keep this place together.

Plus, they’d have a laugh at some of the ghost stories about this place. And he’d get the chance to calm down some of the White House staff that had gone obsessed with weird ghost stories.

Harry picked up a few filters. This deep into February, the furnace was pumping heat all day long and that meant that the ducts were getting clogged with people’s dust. He was changing the filters every three weeks during the winter, and he was already a few days overdue. 

The facts were: The White House was old. Really old. Built in the early 1800s by slaves, burned down by the British in 1814, rebuilt a few years later by another group of slaves, badly maintained throughout the decades, rebuilt from the outside-in around 1950 and inconsistently maintained since then. Unlike your usual suburban home or midtown office, the White House was continuously in use day and night by dozens of people, which meant it wore out faster than most buildings. Minor renovations took place every few years, but that only added to the problems, since every adjustment and new equipment had to be crammed into an existing patchwork of technical debt.

Harry hefted the filters as he made his way further down to the beating heart of the building: the boiler room from which the furnace currently pumped heat throughout the White House.

He knew the White House well enough to know which pipes served no purpose anymore—were kept there simply because removing them would cause problems. He knew the maintenance passageways that wormed their way in between the walls of the building and tried to use this knowledge for good. He understood the load-bearing layers of paint that had accumulated over the decades and why it was a better idea not to touch anything unless strictly necessary.

Unlike most, he had watched the destruction of the East Wing for that idiotic ballroom project with mixed feelings: More than anyone else, he understood the place and what had been destroyed without planning. On the other hand, part of him had been overjoyed at beginning anew somewhere in this building. Unfortunately, the farce that had been that project kept on going: Blunt had apparently pocketed the contributions and hired the cheapest contractors he could find, resulting in a shell of a ballroom that was more steel warehouse with a marble facade than anything that would stay up for even a decade.

But anyway—that East Wing wasn’t much of a problem. It was cheap, tacky and had an expiration date shorter than most domestic pets, but at least it was new and didn’t require much maintenance other than patching the subpar-construction left by the contractors.

Harry’s more immediate concern was the boiler room. It was sweltering, the furnace having run constantly since its outage the previous week. He was alone, but this was the kind of job he could do without assistance. It would just take more time. 

In fact, truth be told, it was almost a relief to do this by himself.  Harry had gone in engineering because he liked machines more than people.  His two crew being away was a relief – he’d deal with the work himself rather than have the added headache of telling someone else what to do.

He removed his overalls, otherwise he’d sweat himself out of energy halfway through. It would be easier to shut down the furnace for the fifteen minutes it would take to replace the filters, but he didn’t dare mess with something that was working. He opened the first panel, feeling the blast of the heat coursing through the duct. His fingers pried out the filter.

It was almost black with accumulated particles—winter was murder on the filters due to the accumulated dust, and dirty filters prevented good air circulation. Which would lead to a furnace breakdown and so on and so forth. Clearly, his sweat wouldn’t be wasted. Sacrifices had to be made.

He replaced the filter with a new one, then went on to the next. There were eight of them feeding the ducts heading to the three main areas of the building (plus two other ducts heading to the bunkers, one of them never mentioned in the news). While the heat was an issue, Harry’s calloused hands and well-practiced method made short work of the task. Fifteen minutes later, he was panting slightly from the effort but at least the filters wouldn’t be a problem for the next three weeks.

Pausing to catch his breath before bundling the dirty filters for disposal, he rested against the wall.

And that’s when he saw the burned man emerge from the furnace.

The boiler door was open—had it been open for long? Why was it open? Harry never opened it. And there was no place for the man to have been in there. But there was the charred figure, emerging from the open door, pulling himself out of the flames, leaving a scorched handprint on the floor, heaving himself out, rising, closing the furnace door behind them.

The man turned his head toward Harry. He could tell that this was a man, but nothing else—black or white, the man’s skin was a carbonized mass cracking as he moved. Black flesh fragments fell to the floor as he approached Harry. His hair had been burned away, and two hollowed sockets were left in lieu of his eyes. Not that the man seemed blind—it moved slowly but surely toward Harry, clearly looking in his direction. His nose was a charred stump. His mouth was scorched away, revealing blackened teeth.

This shit can’t be real, thought Harry. This was a hallucination, something caused by gas leaks! He wasn’t going to run away like a spooked wimp.

Then the man’s arm shot out and grabbed Harry’s head by the jaw. Pushed backwards, Harry felt the back of his head hit the concrete wall behind him. He smelled the burned flesh of the arm under his nose. The harsh blackened surface of the man’s charred fingers pressed against Harry’s short white beard.

This was real. THIS WAS REAL.

Looking down, he saw that blood was starting to seep through the cracks in between the charred flesh fragments of the man’s arm. 

Then the man spoke.

“Those who did nothing condemned us.”

How could the man speak? He had no lips to articulate. There was no tongue behind those black teeth. The man pushed Harry upwards with surprising force, so that his entire body weight rested on his jaw and the wall behind his skull. His feet dangled above ground. He could not have spoken even if he had tried.

“A firestorm is coming, but it will take out the righteous along with the guilty.”

The blood seeping through the cracks in the man’s charred face was starting to flow down.

“You’re still alive. DO SOMETHING.”

Harry abruptly fell to the ground, the hand no longer holding him up by his jaw. On his way down, his head hit a steel pipe.

Maybe seconds later, maybe minutes later, he opened his eyes. 

There was no man here. The furnace door was closed. The floor was clean of any prints. There was no smell of scorched flesh.

Harry felt his face. No charred fragments in his beard. No blood on his clothes. His jaw felt perfectly fine.

His head did hurt, though. 

And he had pissed himself, either before or during his unconsciousness. Probably before. Fuck.

He got up, concerned about any gas buildup near the floor.

Clearly…

Yes, clearly, he had fallen and knocked himself out. The rest was a vision. Vivid, but still a vision.

Now he had to check this place for any gas buildup.

But change himself first.

The next few minutes were a drag. Back to the shop—fortunately empty—to grab a change of clothing he kept for when the job got messy. Stuffed the urine-soaked clothes in a garbage bag to clean at home. Rushed back to the furnace with a gas-leak detector, only to find that everything was well under any concerning level. Double-checked. Triple-checked. Nothing.

Normally, the rational part of Harry’s brain would have stuffed the incident as unworthy of further consideration. He was an engineer. He had partied hard in college. He knew how weird the brain got when you pumped it full of chemicals.

But hours later, as he got a meal from the White House Mess, failing to even flirt with the very cute Delilah along the way, it still gnawed at him. He knew what hallucinations felt like, and this wasn’t the usual fluttery confusion at the edges of perception—this was a full-on vision the likes of which could not be achieved even with heroic quantities of mind-altering substances. He couldn’t shake the intense feeling of dread that the event left behind. Even his skeptical ass felt that this was about something about to happen. A warning.

But about what?

Chapter 2 — Oppositions

When Peggy Carlyle speed-walked through the West Wing, people moved out of the way. As the White House Chief of Staff, her authority inside the building was near-absolute. While the President supposedly controlled the nation, she absolutely controlled who could see the President.

A demanding job most of the time, being Chief of Staff was downright impossible on days of crises, and today was shaping up to be one of those—the only good thing about being chauffeured through her twenty-minute commute through Washington, DC streets was hearing the news as they were communicated to the public, and today’s broadcast felt like barely repressed hysteria. People were scared, and all the jackals were looking at the White House to fix the problems for them rather than taking responsibility for their actions.

Still, she had her game face on as she strolled through the offices. The place was hustling even early in the morning—the deputy assistants had called in the troops. The day would be a never-ending carnival of requests to see the President and his advisors, and if things broke their way during the day, it could taper off at around midnight.

Peggy was about to get back to her office when she was almost tackled by a weeping administrative staff member. One of the girls from the Records Management Office, maybe. A tiny thing—and so young.

“Oh, I’m so happy to see you,” she bawled in between sobs.

Who was this? she wondered. She looked around, but people were either away or not paying attention.

“I’m so, so scared.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” asked Peggy, using her best grandma voice.

“So many things are going badly.”

She would need to be more specific. Even Peggy’s short commute news update had no dearth of alarming topics:  Fifth day in a row of stock-market losses; food riots in Houston; another incident of ICE agents firing into a peaceful crowd; another toxic spill following a train derailment in Ohio; a second plane crash in as many days. The AI bubble was showing signs of bursting, and it wasn’t going to go like a cute rainbow-hued pop—it looked like a messy bubble-gum-in-the-hair kind of thing. Mass firings in the tech industry weren’t going to do much to bring unemployment back under seventeen percent. And now the governors were openly talking about a state compact—a bullshit word for secession.

“My brother’s job was cut back and my mom’s worried about the riots,” said the girl in-between sobs.

“There, there,” said Peggy while wondering how to extricate herself from this. “This is the White House. We’re the solution.”

That seemed to get the girl’s spirits up.

About thirty seconds too late, a supervisor from the Record Unit made his way to the girl.

“Hey, Amelia, let’s leave Peggy to go back to taking care of business, all right?” he said, gently leading the girl away.

Off they went, leaving some tears on Peggy’s clothes.

Jesus fucking Christ, she thought, another thing to do. At least this wouldn’t take a lot of time.

She aimed straight for the Staff Secretary’s Office.

“Jed,” she said with her command voice as she entered his office.

“Peggy!” he said, standing up straighter.

“That Amelia girl, I want her fired and gone in thirty minutes.”

“Uh, sure, what did—.“

‘She just bawled in my shirt. She’s weak and she’s a burden to this place and I want her away.”

She turned on her flat heels and left to get back to her office. That felt good—one strong decision early in the morning, and the rest would follow. There was no time for niceties, nor weakness. 

At least that was the advantage of looking like a sheep. Peggy deliberately cultivated the appearance of niceness. Her old-fashioned curly hair, her outdated clothes not meant to flatter her stocky figure, her soft voice, even her name—Her given name was Margaret, for Christ’s sake, not Peggy. 

But if she could make anyone underestimate her for even thirty seconds, that was all the time she needed to slash their throat. 

Anyone she was in regular contact with was not fooled, of course, and knew what she stood for—but throughout her career, she had been amazed at how choices she made in her appearance lulled even longtime colleagues into a false sense of security. Look at Peggy, they must have said, she’s really harmless.

Aha, but: You’ll never see me coming as I stab you in the eye.

She had a nasty surprise awaiting in her office—the toady Glenn Hiller, already sitting down with his laptop and, no doubt, a long series of requests.

She tolerated Hiller better than anyone else in the White House—and still she fucking hated Hiller with unbridled rage. She would have personally arranged for his assassination, dismemberment and dissolution in acid if it wasn’t that Hiller got results. Things she didn’t want to think about. And he could speak to the President in ways she didn’t understand.

Still, he was repulsive. Balding at thirty-five, he had bulging eyes, a weak chin, an expanding gut and a psychopath’s blank stare. But this was nothing compared to the content of his brain. 

Even by the standards of the Blunt administration, Hiller was a frightening ideologue. He believed in white supremacy without qualifications; he was an unrepentant male chauvinist; he palled around with the tech oligarchs who advocated for neo-feudalism and if he ever showed empathy, she’d never seen in any of his statements or actions. She had him investigated and found that, as a child, he had a passion for pyromania, mistreating small animals and bedwetting well into his teen years. His parents had told all of this to the investigators without reservations—they had disowned Hiller more than a decade earlier.

Less tangibly, he also carried around an uncomfortable aura—Peggy didn’t like that word, but she supposed it was a combination of his affectless speech, awkward physical posture and unnerving ideas. She always felt better after he left.

“We’ve got issues with the Boss,” he said.

“Yeah, we do,” she said, not learning anything new. “I thought he was on his meds yesterday.”

Blunt had never been particularly smart, but his decline over the past few years was now obvious to everyone. Dementia overlaid over weak cognitive faculties wasn’t a good mixture, and managing the situation was getting tougher. Sure, they talked so much shit about the mental decline of Blunt’s predecessor that they had effectively cowed the entire press corps into shutting up about his own issues, but now even official footage was getting harder to deny. The Canadian press briefing had been embarrassing enough (not that anyone had really paid any attention to that outside Canada), but the previous day he had simply blanked out in front of a crowd, and swayed wordlessly for a few minutes before barking out a few non sequiturs and calling it a speech.

Peggy and everyone else knew perfectly well what this was, and the medical reports never released to the public confirmed as such: Call it Alzheimer’s or dementia, but Blunt was fast losing whatever marbles he still had.

Which was not always a disadvantage. Blunt loved to portray himself as a strong man, but he was strikingly inept as a president. He lets advisors slip pieces of paper under his sharpie and blustered his way in front of the camera. He was the ideal of what the real powers wished in a president: someone barely functional enough to sign what others decided.

The problem is that Blunt’s decline was now eating into the image he was supposed to project. Questions emerged that they weren’t able to control using the media. They pulled off the midterm trick, but even control over technology had its limits when it came to showing how the President behaved. 

“The meds will need to be adjusted,” said Hiller.

They had him on a heavy-duty experimental cocktail of dementia-slowing meds, which sometimes showed up as bruises from injection sites on his hands, fatigue during the day and had to be tracked with regular MRI scans to assess his physical degradation. But it didn’t always work very well.

“Obviously. You don’t need to come here for that, though.”

“No, but I need you to eclipse him for a few days.”

Fancy-talk for saying, “Get him golfing,” which was itself media-speak for “putting grandpa in a closet until the new meds kick in.”  They’d done that a few times, including a dicey week of no media contact during which he recovered from a mini-stroke. The AI-generated video clips worked well enough to confuse the issue, but if the working journalists were effectively muzzled, social media wasn’t so easy to intimidate. Although things were looking up there too.

“You realize we’re staring down the barrel of a major crisis in the next few days, right?” she said. “People will ask where’s the President. They will expect a few empty statements.”

“I thought the markets were under control,” he said.

“We’re trying, but we may be reaching the limits of what we can do.”

Ugh, there would be so many meetings about this. The friendly billionaires had made out like bandits during the second Blunt term so far—helped along by regular hints about upcoming federal decisions—but now that it was time to contribute back, they all got skittish all of a sudden. They would need to be reminded who was the boss.

“Well, having a blank-staring president won’t help anything.”

“I’m already pulling back on appearances. We’ll just point at the AI bubble crisis as justification—say he’s working day and night.”

He barked a small expression of amusement—too robotic to qualify as a chuckle, though. She knew what he was thinking: Blunt slept through most mornings while advisors worked their asses off, wandered in the Oval Office shortly before noon, actively refused any briefing, went out for lunch and looked forward to his next public appearance. Working was not his thing.

“I’m worried about the cabinet twenty-fifthing him, though.”

Now that was a problem. Real enough to have verbed it.

“We’ve discussed that, though. We’ve got levers.”

“On most of them, not all of them.”

“They’ll never go through it.”

“I want to be sure. I want a cabinet dinner in the next week. Blame it on the crisis.”

She thought about it. Maybe. It would show the cabinet working together and reinforce the appearance of a strong man at the commands. Behind closed doors, allow any new bad takes to come out so that they could be neutralized.

“Why limit it to the cabinet? Invite a few stakeholders as well.”

They spoke in code even deep in the White House. Force of habit. The only stakeholders that meant anything to this White House were the new oligarchs who backed up Blunt’s administration. They made billions off the government’s decisions, while they were only asked for a few favours in return. Now would be the time to ask.

“Hmmm.”

Now it was Hiller’s turn to think. What dark gears were turning in that head Peggy didn’t want to explore, but she had an idea. Inviting the stakeholders would be a way to crack the whip, both for those invited and those left out. Pressure could be applied.

“Yes, I like it. Fifty seats. East room. Within the next week.”

She nodded. It would be done.

“Which reminds me,” she said, “What about those foreign assassins going around town?”

“Neutralized. Our friend Jury took care of them. Nabbed them all at Pentagon City Mall.”

“Good. One less thing to worry about.”

There was a short pause, during which Peggy hoped Hiller would go away. But no such luck.

“I’ve got a couple more things,” he said, “starting with a pardon request.”

“Which one this time?”

“Praxtos, from Texas. In federal prison for murder. Business guy who killed his wife, then went home and killed his two kids.”

“Oh yeah, I remember that.”

“Six months in, wants a pardon.”

“Has he put up the cash?”

“Yes, as requested.”

She shrugged.

“Then the Boss will sign it. You know how it works. Prepare the paperwork.”

“There’s something else,” he said.

“I don’t have time.”

“Yes, you do.”

He showed the screen of his laptop. Peggy saw three pictures—a young white man, a young black woman, and an old white woman.

“What is it?” she finally sighed.

“The Chief Engineer just invited those three characters for a tour of the White House. Those two have a video channel debunking haunted houses.”

“Why are you bothering me with this? This is for Press Relations.”

“He’s a nonentity, apolitical, but he’s got dual citizenship. The black bitch’s a Canadian. The old hag is the one behind the kakistocracy video.”

Oof—that video had not gone over well at the White House.

“Oh. Well, we just deny their application. Again, why are you bothering me with this?”

“You know what’s going on and what’s likely to happen. If your methods won’t work… Sacrifices must be made.”

OH SHIT OH FUCK OH YOU MOTHERFUCKING COCKSUCKING MONSTER WHY DID YOU—

“I see,” she simply said.

“How about we coordinate their visit with the cabinet dinner? Just in case we need something stronger.”

With a hollow feeling churning in her guts, she nodded.

After-dinner entertainment.

🏛️

The chauffeur opened her door, and Miranda Drayton slid her long legs out of the black SUV. Her heels clacking on the concrete floor of the parking, she made her way past the automatic doors to the executive elevator and swiped her card. The doors opened, and she stepped in without looking back.

She was quickly whisked up to the top floor of the building, where a short walk past her executive and administrative staff took her to her office as Secretary of Agriculture. Ever the southern belle, she kept her head high, her posture dignified and didn’t make eye contact along the way—what possible use would that be? Otherwise, she’d be up in meaningless chit-chat all morning.

The computer recognized her face and showed her schedule for the day—none of that password nonsense. She scanned her appointments—the day was, as usual, booked solid. Worse than usual considering the unfolding crisis. While Agriculture wasn’t directly concerned about the ongoing AI bubble crash, there was talk of contagion and—ah, there it was: the first meeting would be a briefing on the situation by the USDA’s top analyst.

She had about five minutes to prepare. She looked outside the window, once again taking in the view. Her office was right next to the National Mall, and without stretching her neck she could see the Smithsonian museums and the Washington monument. She couldn’t see the White House, though—it stood behind the new Southern Heritage National Museum that took over the grounds of the former National Museum of African American History and Culture. Maybe that was for the best: distancing herself from the White House had become an increasing temptation since the beginning of her term.

She hadn’t expected to care so much. Being nominated as Secretary of Agriculture was meant as a sinecure. The Blunt administration didn’t care all that much about the position, so they had handed it over as a favour, and her name bubbled to the top of the list. She wasn’t blind or delusional—she wasn’t qualified, but she had contributed enough to the party that this put her on the short list. For the rest, she knew her resumé and how she looked. She was the daughter of an old-south aristocratic family, and she had married well. Everyone knew her story: Her much-older husband had dropped dead years ago, leaving her the reins of his agribusiness empire. She’d done well for someone without formal business education, largely by listening to the right people. 

But she knew the real reason she’d floated to the top, and that was because she looked the part. Blunt had a fixation for beautiful people—media personalities were legion in the new administration despite their nonexistent qualifications, as long as they looked good. She did look good, and she knew it because she worked at it. Daily exercise, meticulously planned diet and near-daily hair touch-ups with occasional cosmetic adjustment ensured that the looks matched the poise she learned as a debutante. A former college boyfriend had said that, with her thin face, white complexion and angular features, she looked like a princess. But then he’d also said she looked like a witch when they broke up, so what did he really know? The point was: she made other cabinet members think about their chances with her, and that got her the job.

Not that they ever had a chance—she’d learned long ago, even during her marriage, that only stupid boys were good to relax with. Looking the part of a widow—the long straight dark hair draped over her face giving the appearance of a veil—was important, and so was the lack of attachment. Some very discreet establishments, in Washington or in Omaha, catered to her kinds of needs—and she paid the stupid boys to leave, not for what they did with her.

But even with those distractions, the past two years had not turned out as she expected. She thought that the Cabinet posting would be easier. She knew the Blunt administration’s preoccupations were usually about other areas than agriculture. But then the dumb tariffs got farmers in a rage, and she’d gotten into shouting matches with the idiots over at Commerce. These people voted for you, she’d said to Blunt, surprised at her own passion. She had gradually been drawn into the machinery of the department, enjoyed learning more about what it did, and even derived some satisfaction from what she could do. Small victories, most of the time, but at least she took her job seriously—unlike some of the jerks around the cabinet table.

She suspected sabotage from time to time, and, of course, she didn’t have the resources to fight back. So, she marshalled what she did have. And her first meeting of the day was with one of those secret weapons.

Logan Ewing was the smartest person in the department. She’d noticed his presence and his influence the first day on the job as she looked at the office org chart. There was an Executive Level 3 reporting directly to her chief of staff. No team. Vague title: “Advisor to the Secretary.”  Weird.

Then she had met the guy and understood. Within minutes, he showed that he understood the department inside and out. He showed no fear about her looks, her position or her behaviour. He spat out facts and opinions with fearlessness. At some point, Ewing outright said, “I don’t care about making nice with the new regime. You want me out, I will go. You keep me, I will tell you the truth.”

She had kept him. His sympathies were not with the Blunt admin, but he had been with the department long enough to know everything. Even his opinions were as solid as facts. Ewing mapped out the impact of the Blunt tariffs long before everyone else, all the way down to the soybean spat with China. So, when she had a question, she knew the right person to ask—even if that meant having him disappear for a week while he accumulated facts and analyzed options. 

Truth-tellers were rare in Washington, but if she had one skill, it was knowing who to listen to. 

Ewing had given her what was necessary to outwit the chuckleheads at Commerce at three different times. His advice proved invaluable in keeping the staff with her—at a time when qualified people were quitting the federal government in droves, she had kept a functioning unit, even casting off the idiotic “efficiency” shit that the short-lived Central Administrative Taskforce Service (CATS) had tried to pull off.

A few days ago, she’d asked Ewing to take a look at the possibility of the AI bubble crash. He hadn’t blinked, simply said that he’d be ready for this morning.

At exactly the appointed time, he entered the room and sat in front of her desk. He had a folder in his hands, no doubt filled with the facts and figures supporting his argument. Besides him, her Chief of Staff took another place, looking worried.

In one look, she understood that the news would not be good. He looked terrible, and that was even by his own undemanding standards. Had he slept over the past few days? No, it looked worse—not fatigue. Anxiety. Fear. Doom.

“All right, let’s hear it,” she said.

She knew how it would go—Ewing was a fan of top-down briefings, and so was she: State the conclusion, then work your way through the supporting evidence as the time allows. It was ideal for top-level briefings when no one knew how much time could be allocated to the discussion without further interruption.

“We’re fucked,” he said.

She blinked and took in the news, more for what it meant than what it was. His statement was really this: there would be considerable misery in the days, weeks and months ahead. The world would be unpleasant, maybe dangerous. For a while, she would sleep fitfully, then wake up and be briefly happy until she remembered everything she had to face during the day. The details were unimportant: she could simply thank him for his conclusion and close the meeting right away, and she would still get about ninety percent of what she would learn in the next few minutes.

But, of course, she didn’t. She would get the details.

“Please explain,” she said.

“The AI bubble is real,” he said with precise cadence. “It’s popping and it’s not going to be limited to the tech field. Even if the Fed intervenes, it’s going to splash the rest of the economy. No way around it. No safe place to go. No one will be spared.”

“Impact?”

“We’re talking depression-era statistics. April 2020 numbers for a decade, maybe more. If we’re lucky.”

“Whoa, whoa, what’s happening?”

“What should have happened at least a year ago. Everyone finally understood that Generative AI is just a fancy toy. Sometimes useful, but not something indispensable. Not enough to pay for. Certainly not the harbinger of Artificial General Intelligence.”

She shrugged. “We knew that.”

“Yes, but what’s happening is that investors are finally realizing that they will never make back the hundreds of billions of dollars they’ve invested in AI projects. Never.  So, the smartest of them already took out their chips. Now the second-smartests are pulling out and the third-smartests are noticing. You see where this is going?”

“It can be reversed, or stop tomorrow morning.”

“No. WeCredit is cashing back their stake in FreedomAI. All of it. This means FreedomAI’s not solvent anymore. They never made a profit out of Generative AI. Let alone anyone else. If they go, no more data centre rentals. Since every AI company owes money to each other, it’s going to get ugly.”

“Still seems limited,” she said weakly.

“Tell that to the non-tech stocks that just lost a quarter of their value in six days. Contagion will touch everything. Banks going under, pension funds running short, countries unable to refinance their debts—for years, AI was the only thing propping up growth, and now that’s being knocked away. Everyone is playing musical chairs, and someone’s going to fall on their asses.”

“How much time?”

He shrugged.

“If the Fed makes reassuring noises, it may delay things by a day or two. Otherwise, meltdown in four days.”

“Meltdown?”

“Bank runs. Investment withdrawals on a massive scale. Bankruptcies. A million more people unemployed in the span of twenty-four hours. Pension checks not being issued.  The AI bubble kept our economy afloat, and it was a sham all along. Portrait of an era with a loose relationship with truth. And we didn’t even get any useful infrastructure out of it. What do you think will happen to AI data centres when no one’s paying the bills?  Rust and waste.”

“This won’t happen for months.”

“The market is not going to wait.”

“All of this because of AI? Something that doesn’t even work well?”

“Smoke and mirrors and people who were willing to be deceived. Hell, this has already stopped being about AI. This is now about everyone’s worst fears becoming true and stampeding toward the exit.”

“Is there anything anyone can do?”

“No. Normally, bailouts and money injection could work, but the coffers are empty. The entire government is underwater. There are already riots in the streets. How do you think they’ll react if the government hands out billions to their tech bros?”

“Maybe the other central banks can help?”

“Really? After the shit that Blunt’s been pulling over the past two years? They’ve insulated themselves from us. They’re already pulling out of the bond market. They’re taking their opportunity to destroy us. They’ll dance on our graves.”

She leaned back in her chair.

“Okay, let’s focus on what we can do to minimize the damage. I’m going to have you focus on a plan for the agribusiness sector…”

“No, not me.”

“What?”

He took a sheet from his folder and slid it toward her.

“This is my resignation, effective yesterday. You got this briefing for free.”

“You can’t leave!”

“Already did. I cleaned out my office. Apartment keys handed back to the landlord. My car is packed, fuelled and ready to go.”

He took out his work cell phone and keycard and left them on her desk.

“You said there’s no safe place.”

“I did, but there are places where this is going to be easier to weather.”

“Where are you going?”

He smiled and shook his head. Then he chuckled and got up, clearly intent on leaving.

“Goodbye, Miranda. For what it’s worth, I think there’s still hope for you.”

The Chief of Staff looked at her in distress as he left, but she shook her head. Let him go. If Logan Ewing came back to Agriculture, he would do so on his own.

Miranda absently went through her Chief of Staff’s rattled overview of her schedule for the day, but her mind kept going back to Ewing. A doomsday briefing was one thing, but quitting at the end of it was something else. She could probably track him and eventually try to get him back. 

Or maybe he was wrong, for once, and things would look normal next week and they’d laugh at the dramatic silliness of the moment.

She was left alone when her chief of staff went out to take care of business. Her next meeting got cancelled, so she was left to catch up on accumulated email. Still, the briefing still bothered her as her personal phone rang. Not the usual ringtone—the one for emergencies.

She fumbled the phone, but finally looked at the caller ID:  ANTLER, she read with a chill. That wasn’t a call she could ignore.

“Yes,” she said, acquiescing that she would listen to the instructions she would now receive.

“You are about to get an invitation to a cabinet dinner at the White House in three days from now. You will accept.”

The voice at the other end of the line was from one of the most powerful men on the planet. One who did not tolerate foolishness, and who was not to be questioned.

“Yes,” she said.

“You will go to the dinner. There will be a discussion about the fate of the republic. You will support Vice-President Kean in his suggestions.”

She stayed silent. That was the wrong choice.

“You were nominated for a very specific purpose. Do not forget your place. Sacrifices need to be made. Do you understand?”

This time she did not miss her cue.

“Yes, I understand.”

Chapter 3 — Approaching the House

Dave smiled and held Gabrielle’s hand. They walked toward the White House by way of the President’s Park, the iconic columns and round facade of the historic building in front of them. The lawn was green, it was warm and the sun was shining straight down on them.

“Let’s go to the White House!” laughed Gabrielle.

“Yes!” he said.

Then a man appeared in front of them. Serious. Shades. Walkie-talkie and earbuds.

“This is not a good idea,” the serious man said. “Go back and forget about this.”

Dave shrugged.

“Okay!”  There had to be a good reason for this. They could come back later. 

“Yeah, let’s go back to Canada!” said Gabrielle.

That sounded like a great idea!

“We can ride all the way there!” said Gabrielle.

Dave looked down, and there were bicycles on the lawn. What fun it would be to ride back to Toronto!

But as they were getting on the bicycles, the air shook with the sound of an explosion.

They turned back. 

There were three holes in the White House’s main buildings. Thick black smoke spewed into the air. They could see pieces of the building blown high up in the sky.

“Watch out!” he said, shielding Gabrielle with his arm.

All around them, chunks of white marble landed on the lawn with thuds, embedding themselves into the soft ground like broken teeth.

“Are you okay?” he asked, panicked.

He ran his tongue around his mouth. All his teeth were there.

“I’m fine,” she said. “But they’re not.”

She pointed and he looked. 

Shambling figures staggered out of the dust from the explosion. Men, women, children. They barely looked alive. The fire from the explosion had charred their skin, burned off their hair, and fused their clothes to their bodies. They advanced with difficulty, moaning at every step.

Dave looked up. The three explosions from the White House were now pillars of fire and smoke rising like grey-and-orange mushroom clouds.

The figures were all moaning something. He approached them and listened.

“This will be your fault, Dave. This will be your fault.”

He froze as they approached him. They did not have eyes. Their faces were barely recognizable as human. But they all came toward him. Gabrielle was nowhere to be seen as they encircled him, pointing hands with missing fingers.

“You’re still alive. DO SOMETHING.”

Dave gasped, curled in a ball, opened his eyes and found himself in a hotel room. The thin February sunlight was barely visible around the blackout curtains. Gabrielle wasn’t in the bed, but he heard the shower running.

Heartbeat still pounding, breathing hard, he came back to reality. Just a bad dream. Just nerves. Just his brain playing tricks on the morning of his biggest show to date. They were going to the White House! 

He got up and, to drown out the fading memories of his nightmare, turned on the TV. It was tuned to a news channel, and, as usual, it was all bad. Top of the hour was the stock market—an eighth straight day of losses, down fifty percent from the top, and the overnight trading indicators were looking even worse. Two banks were looking at bankruptcy due to AI bubble losses. Pressure was building on the White House to do something, and some kind of emergency cabinet meeting was taking place that night. 

Things didn’t get any better once the news took a break from the economy. Overnight riots in five cities as ICE officers were asked to protect banks against protesters. A fourth plane crash in a week, this time into an Atlanta residential neighbourhood. Toxic cloud in Idaho from another train derailment—thirteen dead. More countries were telling their citizens to get out of the United States, following in the footsteps of Canada. A democratic congressman has been assaulted during one of his townhall meetings by three guys wearing camouflage masks. The blue governors planning to meet about a compact were now denounced by the red ones, who were threatening to send their national guards to the state capitals and take over.

Dave turned off the TV. There was a reason why he didn’t pay attention to politics. It was all the same. They were all corrupt. Whatever the problem, they were not the solution. Sure, Blunt was bad, but was anyone really any better? Whatever. He’d focus on buildings—that, at least, he’d understand.

Which led to another mental micro-argument with Gabi. This one was familiar enough that she didn’t even need to be there for it to happen. This was the “You don’t care about politics but politics cares about you, Dave” argument.

One of the things that had attracted him to Gabrielle was her passion for everything. She didn’t follow politics—she marched at demonstrations and signed petitions. She didn’t take up South Korean cuisine—she’d spend weeks perfecting a recipe. She didn’t just take up filmmaking—she became a pro-level camera operator. 

She, in turn, liked his laid-back nature – how he was the rock in their relationship, the one steadying them both.

But that came with drawbacks, and his lack of interest in politics was one of the things that she really disliked about him. No matter how he tried to explain that they couldn’t possibly make any difference, that politics was like pro wrestling with ugly people, she wouldn’t accept it—and the argument often mutated into the “How can a smart guy like you can be so stupid?” variant that he didn’t like.

Ugh. And now they were walking into the White House with that academic that Gabrielle insisted they drag along for expert commentary—someone he didn’t know, but who knew the history of the building and had scored some kind of viral hit with the weird name—Kiwi crazy, or something. Gabrielle had insisted on it as payback for not going back to Canada. At least the academic was doing it for free and paid for her own travel, which would keep their costs under control.

He opened the blackout drapes. Speaking of cutting costs… here they were, technically in Washington, DC, but about as far from the White House as it was possible while still being within District limits. At least it was cheaper for the stay. They’d need to take a taxi, though—they weren’t even close to a metro line.

As he took in the dismal view, Gabrielle stepped out of the bathroom and approached him. She opened her robe and wrapped her arms around him for a big hug. He could feel her nipples on his back, and that made him smile in remembrance of the previous night—one of the reasons they’d insisted on a hotel technically located in the District was that they could add another city to their list of “places Dave and Gabi had sex”—seventeen states and counting. And yesterday had been great.

He turned to kiss her and she almost purred.

“Hey there,” she said, “keep some energy for today. Or tonight.”

She smiled and drew back to get dressed. He, as usual, enjoyed the nudity. 

But that was also his cue to get ready. Showering effectively, not forgetting a quick shave to look his camera best, he was in and out of the bathroom in fifteen minutes, by which time Gabi was already putting together the day’s equipment pack. 

Their audiovisual equipment was spread on the hastily made bedsheets. She looked things over one last time, made a last-minute substitution for one of the fill-in lights and packed everything in three carrying cases. Meanwhile, he called up a taxi.

Moments later, they were in the car.

“Where too, boss?” said the driver.

“The White House,” couldn’t resist Dave.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Why would anyone want to go there?” wondered the driver before falling silent.

After that chilly start, Dave had worked overtime to warm up the guy a little. Throughout their time down the highway, he explained that they had a video channel about debunking haunted houses, and that seemed to cheer the driver.

“Not political?”

“Not at all!” laughed Dave, trying to ignore the daggers that Gabrielle was undoubtedly staring his way.

By mid-trip, the driver was friendly again. If Dave knew anything, it was charming people.

“You’re lucky duckies! Morning traffic is just dying down!”

Indeed, their transit time had been pretty good so far.

But then things slowed to a standstill four blocks away from their destination.

“I’m not sure what’s going on, boss,” said the driver. “Things have been weird around the White House this week. Accidents, arrests, all the crackpots going crazy! Could be a protest.”

“Does that take a long time?”

The driver hesitated.

“Look, you’re good people and I don’t want to scam you. We could be here for half an hour if you really want the drive.  Or you can pay me now, I go back north at the next right, and you walk three blocks with your equipment. Your choice.”

Dave thanked him, paid, and hurriedly got their cases from the trunk. Gabi, who was in better shape than him, didn’t object—and, as usual, he carried two of the three cases.

As predicted by the driver, the traffic wasn’t going anywhere. Emergency flashes announced something serious up ahead, but the exact nature of it only became obvious once they couldn’t avoid going past on the other side of the street. Nor avoiding a ghoulish look at the ongoing crisis.

There had been a serious accident during the morning—a small car had crashed into a truck carrying construction supplies, and emergency personnel were surrounding the car. Someone was wailing. Dave saw that some construction supplies—a steel pipe, among other things—had smashed through the windshield.

As they walked past on the other side of the street, he stopped, looked closer and regretted it.

The passenger had been decapitated. Blood had splashed the inside of the car, and some of it was dripping on the street as they extracted the corpse.

They were working on extracting the driver, but the woman looked unresponsive. When they placed her on a gurney, Dave saw that the entire side of her face had been ripped away.

At the back of the car, two kids were bawling.

“Come on, Dave,” nudged Gabrielle. “There’s no need to watch this.”

He shook his head and they resumed their walk.

“I thought building supplies had to be fastened down on trucks,” he said weakly.

“They’re barely enforcing regulations these days,” she said. “As above, so below.”

Uh-oh—was this the start of her “United States is a failed state” rant? 

Apparently not: Gabrielle didn’t add anything as they kept walking.

The rubbernecking wasn’t without consequence, thought Dave, his heart beating faster than usual. What was in the air? Why were things so shit all the time these days? With difficulty, he tried thinking about the day ahead.

They were supposed to meet their expert in Lafayette Park, then walk down south to register at the White House Visitor Center. Gabi hoped she’d get some footage of the building along the way to maximize their shooting time. The chief engineer would meet them at the centre, but both of them knew that they would only get less than a day inside the building.

Finally, they saw the white building as they walked closer. The straps of the cases were starting to dig in Dave’s shoulders, so he was looking forward to a brief stop. Fortunately, Lafayette Park was right there.

“I hope you can recognize her,” he said, not quite puffing.

“You haven’t watched her videos?”

“No time.”

“Hmph. Well, I said I’d meet her at Lafayette’s statue, and we’re still a few minutes early.”

But as it turned out, the woman was there before they were. Even while not knowing what she looked like, Dave somehow knew exactly who she was.

For one thing, she was standing at the base of the Marquis de LaFayette statues, not busy scrolling on her phone, no headphones in, no pacing or showing any sign of impatience—she was just there, looking around in curiosity, taking in the sights of early-morning Washington.

But what struck him most was just how at ease she looked. A woman in her fifties, she wore her long greying hair with pride. She had a comfortable shawl, smart rimless glasses, and sensible shoes. None of it matched, but somehow it all fit together. Most of all, she seemed completely comfortable, without any hint of self-consciousness. She was plain-looking, yet attractive in her own way.

Gabrielle quickened her pace to be the first to meet her.

“Sonia Sheer!” she said. “I’m Gabrielle, and I’m a big fan!”

“Well, thank you. And you are Dave Bunker. ‘De-Bunked !’” she said while imitating his familiar sign-off hand gesture.

Well, that was embarrassing. He hadn’t seen a single one of her videos, and here she was, having already binged a few of them.

“Thank you so much for the invitation! I mean, you’re the channel star, but-,” she turned toward Gabrielle, “she must be your better half if she invited me!”

Smiling, he nodded. Now he had a better idea why she was going viral.

“As I wrote,” said Gabrielle, “We were hoping you’d fill us in on the history of the building.”

“I can do that! Look, the White House is such a rich place for spooky stories—I mean, people were born then, married there, died there…”

“Wait, wait!” said Gabrielle, “I want to shoot what you’re saying!”

As Gabrielle unpacked the essential equipment for outdoors shooting, Dave knew what to do—he reached out into one of his cases and took out two Lavalier mikes—one for him and one for Sheer. 

The academic took a microphone and its pack from his hands and efficiently installed it by herself. She hefted the recording device.

“One of those fifty-hour devices? Leave it running all day long?”

“We’ll swap in the audio if the camera sound isn’t good enough.”

“I’ve been wondering about those. Of course, I usually record at my computer. But when it comes to the microphones, I’ve done enough TV interviews to know the drill.”

Always a pleasure to deal with a professional.

“I’m really surprised that the White House approved my clearance, though,” she said. “After the Kakistocracy video, I thought I’d be on a list or something.”

“We just submitted the names, and we got through.”

“You must have a sponsor inside.”

“The Chief Engineer called us. He wrote in to say that he wanted someone to reassure the kitchen and housekeeping staff that there wasn’t anything spooky going on.”

“Well, the White House does have a long history of ghosts and supernatural spooks.”

“Hold it for the camera!” said Gabrielle, now fully decked out with camera and headphones. “How about we move close to the building for a shot?”

They quickly crossed the blocked-off Pennsylvania Avenue and moved toward the front of the White House. This early in the morning, not many people were around and they could get a great shot of the White House’s north facade. The fence would be in the way, but that added to the forbidden thrill of being allowed inside. Gabrielle quickly explained the camera move she wanted as an introduction, told them to stay near their marks and framed Dave from the east, taking advantage of the sun at their side for better colours and contrast.

“Go when you are,” she said, turning on the camera.

“Hello, Debunkers! This is Dave, and we’ve got a monster show for you today. Here we are in Washington, DC, about to get inside and investigate the creepiest, scariest, spookiest building in the entire nation. I’m talking, of course, about…”

Gabrielle moved the camera to reveal the building, perfectly framing Dave’s pointing index.

“…the White House.”

A knowing nod.

“With us today, we have a very special guest. Some of you may already know her, and if you don’t, please go and watch her videos. She’s an academic, an expert in American history and the creator behind the viral Kakistocracy video…”

Whew—good thing Gabrielle had just mentioned it again.

“… I’m, of course, talking about the lovely and talented Samatha Sheer. Such an honour! Welcome to De-Bunked, Sonia!”

“De-Bunked !” she imitated with enthusiasm.

“Now, you’re here to tell us all about what we don’t know about the White House—is that correct?”

“I hope so, Dave! You have to understand that the White House is one of the oldest buildings in the entire nation. It was built two hundred and thirty-five years ago, burned down by the British, rebuilt a few times, and renovated every few years. It’s been the home for every single president of the United States except for George Washington, and interestingly enough, it took more than a decade after its construction before people started calling it the White House.”

“But it’s not only one building, right?”

“Right! Everyone knows the Executive Residence behind us, which is the central building we all see on the news. But that building is only one of three, and it’s dedicated to being the residence of the President and his family, plus a place to host dignitaries and, of course, visiting tourists. Fun fact—the Executive Residence has thirty-five bathrooms!”

“Well, that’s a relief!”

They both shared a laugh.

“Then there’s the West Wing, which is the workplace of the president and his closest staff. That is where, contrary to what many think, the Oval Office is actually located—not in the central building. Finally, there’s the East Wing—formerly a visitor’s centre and the offices of the First Lady, but recently rebuilt as a ballroom.”

“All right!”

He turned to the camera.

“Guess what, debunkers? We’ve been invited to go take a look inside the White House—and not the usual tourist tour either. We are going deep inside the place to take a look behind the curtains, at the ghosts and gremlins that could be inside.”

He stopped.

“Perfect!” said Gabrielle.

“No pick-ups?”

“Do you want one?”

He thought about it. Gabi’s take was perfect, but still a one-shot. 

“How about a few longer shots of us talking? Then we’ll head to the visitors’ centre.”

“Got it!”

Gabrielle stepped back, enjoying the space while no one else was crowding the place. It would be otherwise soon—already, he could see people with banners clustering at the edge of the blocked-off area, negotiating with the police.

“We’ll just talk a little bit,” he said, “while she shoots coverage. Same position.”

“I know how it works. Did she get an ambient tone, at least?”

“Um…”

“I’m kidding! Of course she did!”

“So, you’re saying the White House is haunted?”

She took a deep breath.

“There are many ways to answer that question. On the dumbest level, sure, there have been many reports of the White House being haunted over the years. I’ll bring it up during our tour—The Thing said to touch visitors on the shoulders, the ghost of Lincoln, or the haunting by William Henry Harrison, who was the first president to die in the White House—.”

“The first?”

“Two Presidents and three first ladies have died inside the House. One child of a president, too—one of Lincoln’s sons. Then the father of a first lady, the mother of another first lady, a congressman and a press secretary who died at his desk. A total of ten people in all.”

“Jesus.”

“Of course, tales of haunting are most likely bullshit. A combination of an old building, tall tales and impressionable people—not to mention those old building issues you usually find out.”

“Right.”

“But on another register, the White House is literally haunted by the past. It was built by slaves and for decades, it was staffed by the slaves of the serving presidents. Every single bad decision that has stained this country was taken or endorsed here. Native genocide, slavery, foreign invasions, internment camps, deportations, nuclear bomb launches—all hatched and decided here. When Truman decided to drop the first atomic bombs, he reported hearing loud scratches coming from outside his office, as if made by fingernails on wood. He was convinced the place was haunted by Lincoln.”

“But by Truman’s time, the White House was so old that it was entirely rebuilt after he left office. It creaked because it was about to fall apart.”

“Right. But in a sense, the White House is haunted by its history. It has been in non-stop use for centuries. Every president who steps inside has to contend with the legacy of his predecessors, who have all stepped more or less in the same place. It’s enough to—.”

Before she could complete her sentence, she was interrupted by a loud scream coming from farther down the avenue.

Dave turned and saw that someone had set themselves on fire, no more than fifty yards away from them. Gabi also turned with the camera and captured everything from even closer.

The self-immolator was screaming. It was a far, far worse sound than Dave had heard in countless horror movies—it was pure concentrated pain, defiance from an ultimate act of protest and regret for an irremediable act all wrapped in one. The man had his arms spread out in a martyr pose, flames engulfing the thick jacket he had been wearing against the February cold. Later, Dave would realize that the self-immolator had been wearing fuel-soaked clothes underneath his jacket, as to set himself on fire without anyone being alerted. It had worked—Dave could not believe that flames could be this thick on someone. The wind brought them the first acrid smell of fuel. Maybe even some heat, although this could have been Dave’s imagination.

The screaming continued, drilling itself into Dave’s brain. Samatha turned away, but Dave couldn’t stop watching the man as he continued screaming. Then the man collapsed, the flames engulfing him. More flames erupted—bladders of fuel under his jacket, later realized Dave. Then the screaming grew fainter, and the smell changed to, horribly, that of a barbecue.

The man had unrolled a carpet in from of him. A message had been painted on it as a sign of protest and explanation.

FUCK TARIFFS. FUCK FASCISM. FUCK BLUNT.

🏛️

It wasn’t even ten in the morning and the evening was already falling apart.

“NO!” screamed Peggy in her phone. “The President is busy working and he’s not giving any interviews! Stop calling, and go fuck yourself with an electric knife!”

As she ended the call, she once again missed the old bulky telephones, where you could just not end the call, but slam the receiver in its cradle. More than once, if necessary, just to be sure you passed on the message. Now it was a finger on glass.   Sure, you could throw the phone at the wall, but she knew from experience that it was a pain to set up a new phone. And until you did, you had to walk around with a cracked screen like one of the poors.

But that wasn’t the problem. The problem is that Blunt had overnight squirted something stupid again, and a few hours would need to be wasted trying to damage control everything. In a single squirt, he had managed to claim at once that that the crisis wasn’t real, that it was a deliberate plan by his enemies to destroy him, that antifa incompetents had caused it, that it was a terrible threat to the nation and yet it would disappear by itself in two weeks. Thank you for your attention in this matter.

The few journalists who had managed to get her phone number were calling one after another to ask what the president’s true position was—knowing fully well he did not have one but enjoying having her squim. Meanwhile, all of this was going against their plan of showing a united Cabinet taking the issue seriously enough to have a dinner about it.

Speaking of which…

“No!” she screamed at the Chief Usher, “not the blue covers! The white-and-gold ones!”

God-fucking-damnit, she had three dozen things to do and her time was taken up by tableware. What had she forgotten to do already?

Setting up the State Dining Room for the cabinet dinner was trickier than expected—it was a working supper and the optics of the thing meant giving the impression that it was a cabinet working together. This meant a setup halfway between a meeting room and a dinner. The usual arrangement of having several small round tables wasn’t good: it gave the impression of disconnected groups. So, it had to be a single square-table arrangement, with multiple tables linked together into an empty square capable of sitting thirty.

“And the president’s place is at the top of the room!” she pointed. “Why is this so hard? Aren’t you supposed to take care of those things?”

“Yes ma’am,” he had enough sense to mumble in between what was nearly a bow.

“Now what’s the service situation tonight?”

“Minimal staff,” he repeated from previous instructions, “but enough to serve the dinner.”

“That’s right. How many is that?”

“The food is being prepared during the day. Come six o’clock, we’ll be down to two chefs in the kitchen and six serving staff. One for every five guests.”

Good. Great. Fewer people around. She quickly added everyone else who would be on hand—twenty-five cabinet members, plus a handful of stakeholders. That was thirty people around the table. The rest of the White House would not be empty, but they could be told to stick to the West Wing for the duration of the event. Add to that a photographer and videographer for the first few minutes, and that unremovable stain-weasel Hiller. They could keep it under forty for the main event. Less than forty-five with the secret service –they would be told to back off.

She circled the room, picturing the evening’s dinner in her mind. Form followed purpose, but the purpose here was something else than promised. An evening dinner, pitched as a problem-solving summit between the cabinet members and a few of the most powerful billionaires. As long as they got some good pictures and clips out of it, that would go over with the base and the credulous—See, the president’s doing something so why don’t you calm down and keep your money in the bank?

The timing of it was trickier, though. Dinner at six, work session until nine. Getting Blunt to stay on meds for three hours would be the challenge, although the recent re-dosing seemed to have stabilized him, even against the usual sundowning. Still, two hours would be the limit. After that, depending on the discussions, most of the junior flunkies unaware of the after-show would be sent home with a pat on the back—who needed people like the Secretary of Agriculture anyway? —, and the real work would begin.

The inner circle would take care of things. 

Chapter 4 — Within the Gates

No one can just show up at the White House and step right in, knew Dave. Their contact had told them to go where the other visitors to the White House usually went—the Visitors’ Centre two blocks south-east of the Executive Residence, where the visitors to the building went for security screening before being allowed within the gates of the grounds.

The walk over there had been sombre. None of them had spoken much, unsettled by the immolation on Pennsylvania Avenue. The police had rushed in to establish a perimeter, an ambulance had been allowed to drive in the closed-off area, but this was all useless—nothing could be done to bring back the dead. 

Dave couldn’t understand the reasoning—why the gesture when it wouldn’t change anything? The poor sap should have stayed home, gotten drunk and lived another day. What was he hoping to do by setting himself on fire? Send a message? There were messages all day long on the news, and no one was doing anything. The guy had cared too much, decided Dave. 

Politics could eat you alive if you cared too much about it. Right. Right?

He snuck glances at his partners. Sonia looked sad. Gabi looked pissed.

They were nearing the Visitor’s Center. Some tension-breaker was in order. But Dave didn’t know what to say—one wrong statement, and the day would get even worse. 

But they were going to the White House! That was amazing, right?

Mike, if you could see me now!

Fortunately, their arrival at the Visitor’s Centre broke some of the tension.

“I hope we don’t have too much trouble with the screening,” mumbled Gabrielle.

Her concern wasn’t so much about her Canadian passport, Dave knew—they’d sent in their information for pre-screening a few days ago, and had apparently been cleared. It was for the equipment that they lugged around: While it was standard audiovisual equipment for a small channel like them, there was often one lunkheaded security guard who thought everything was a bomb. At those times, Dave had learned it wasn’t a good idea to snap back at them that they didn’t have enough space for a bomb in there.

Still, they were on time even after trekking down Fifteenth Street, and the lineup at the screening booth wasn’t that long. 

It was at least long enough to think about something else.  While they were waiting, Sonia—who had volunteered to take the third case—leaned toward Dave and Gabrielle.

“So, did you ever see something spooky in those haunted houses that you weren’t able to explain?”

Gabi laughed. He knew why.

“It’s not as if we can identify absolutely everything,” said Dave. “But I’m satisfied with the rational explanations that I find.”

Unfortunately.

“Dave is never wrong,” said Gabrielle.

“I could be, I suppose, but most of the haunted house characteristics fall into only a few categories of explanations. Of course, that excludes anything that’s solely in the head of the owners.”

“You have many of those?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Well, at least before we learned how to spot them and reject their application,” said Gabi, for whom shop talk would break the bad spell left by the self-immolation.

“A lot of people enjoy thinking they’re in a haunted house,” added Dave. “You can’t convince them of a rational explanation. Or people with obvious issues—they’re the haunted ones.”

“Or that guy who went out of his way to play tricks on Dave.”

“Good thing you had set up back-up cameras for that one,” Dave laughed.

Their trip down memory lane was cut short by arriving at the security kiosk. Gabi went first, dropping the equipment case on the conveyor belt next to the full-body scanner. Hopefully, those stickers about AUDIOVISUAL EQUIPMENT INSIDE and their channel logo would do the trick. She handed over her passport before walking through the scanner.

No alarms. The security guards weren’t in a mood to take things easy, and they stared at Dave so that he could move through. He dropped the cases, handed over his papers and walked through.

Again, no alarm. Sonia was familiar with the procedure—again, case, paper, and scanner.

They were now through the scanner, but the security officers weren’t giving back either their papers or their equipment cases. Three of them conferred next to the computer telling them all about them.

I wonder how detailed it is, thought Dave. Hey, guys, I have a Wikipedia page!

One of the guards made a call on his walkie-talkie. Out of a side door, a man with khakis and a not-so-subtle secret service vest came to see them, looked at the computer, his own phone and had a quick conversation.

Then one of the agents waved them through.

“All clear,” he said. “Someone will be with you in a minute.”

Amazingly, they were handed their equipment cases without further inspection, and herded off the sides of the security screening line—inside the secured zone, but not in the way of official business.

“Hmmm,” said Dave.

Gabi nodded. This was shared speak for “Let’s talk about this later once we’re out of earshot.” It’s not because they were inside the perimeter that they could claim victory, especially if they started trash-talking the security service to their faces.

Sonia got the message as well, and stayed silent.

They had to wait five minutes, but someone did show up: An older black man with coveralls, a short grey beard and a buzz cut. 

“Dave!” he called out. “De-Bunked !”

Dave smiled. That catchphrase was the dumbest thing about their show, but when it worked, it worked.

“You’ve got to be Harry Newson,” he said, shaking his hand.

“That I am! And you all are…”

“My lovely wife and camerawoman Gabrielle.”

Harry stopped and turned toward Dave.

“You married a sista? My man!”

Harry gave him a fist bump, which Dave met out of instinct. Then they both laughed.

“I mean, I never saw you on-screen.”

“Part of our prenup,” said Gabi, “I handle the camera, and I never show up on screen.”

“Yeah, it works for us.”

He turned to introduce the third member of their group.

“And that’s our American history expert, Sonia Sheer.”

“Oh yeah!”

Harry lowered his voice and brought his head closer to theirs.

“I watched that Kakistocracy video a few nights ago. So good.”

Had everyone watched that video?

Sonia leaned in further. 

“Thank you. But let’s not mention it too loud.”

They all chuckled.

“So, are you ready to go hunt some presidential ghosts?”

🏛️

Miranda was being driven to an industry luncheon—a meat-packing industry event in which she was expected to show up and speak for five minutes—when her phone rang. 

It was Gordon Stassen, Secretary of Labor. One of the few members of the cabinet with whom she got along. He wasn’t obviously crazy; he was happily married and never hit on her; and just like her, he tried to do as good of a job as he could under the circumstances. Of course, being the Secretary of Labor in this cabinet was asking to be marginalized. If she could share frustrations with anyone, it was with him.

Not that she trusted him completely, Washington being Washington.

“Hey, Miranda. Going to tonight’s dinner?”

“We don’t get to choose, Gord.”

“Right. So, ah, you got a call from ANTLER?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m thinking it’s going to happen tonight.”

Miranda inhaled. It being the thing that had been hush-hush discussed ever since the beginning of Blunt’s second term. The Conspiracy to Save America, they’d called it.

“I’m not so sure it will happen tonight, but I think someone’s going to decide whether to get it in motion tonight.”

“Do you think we have the votes?”

“I’m thinking we’re at seven votes. I’d say eight, but you heard Hoegh last night?”

“Yeah. Could be misdirection, but he’s not that good of an actor.”

Both of them stayed silent.

“There’s going to be a push tonight,” he said. “It’s now or never. You saw the news?”

She was glued to the news. A third major bank had announced insolvency. FreedomAI was declaring bankruptcy to avoid debt repayment and suddenly the tech giants had no money left. Microsoft and Amazon were each slashing tens of thousands of jobs. Two of the three credit rating agencies had downgraded the US standing at A, with a negative outlook. The Dow had lost three thousand points, triggering the circuit breakers for the third time that week. And the National Guard was being mobilized in red states bordering on blue ones. Even the quick analysis from The Economist sounded hysterical.

“I’ve seen the news.”

She thought about it. Thought about Ewing leaving for parts unknown.

“Shit. It has to happen tonight.”

🏛️

“I’m going to ask you to turn off your cameras here, please.”

Gabrielle obeyed, lowering the camera and turning off the power.

Dave could understand why—they were about to step into the new East Wing ballroom. Harry was using his own staff access to get in. 

“Thank you. New construction,” said Harry, “not unveiled to the public yet, so don’t get me in trouble.”

“Right! Is it nearly done?”

“Well, see for yourself,” he said, opening the door.

The new East Wing had been endlessly hyped by Blunt himself, in his characteristic understated style, as an essential legacy for the American people, as a historic addition bringing class to a shithole building, as the classiest, most best ballroom in the world and the most consequential addition to the white house in a century reflecting the greatness that is me, although that last one was disputed due to no one believing that Blunt knew the word “consequential”—either figuratively or literally. 

The ballroom has been delivered in record time, albeit not under budget. The official unveiling was set a few weeks from now, in time for the start of the spring ball season. Blunt often fixated on the addition during the rambling that passed as his speeches these days—hyping its design, construction, decoration and purpose.

A hush fell on the visiting group as they entered the massive space. No one else was there today, which meant they had the place to themselves. 

If it was to be classy and historic, contractors were running out of time to make it so.

It looked like a Costco Warehouse crudely decorated with tacky faux-marble columns and plastic-gold trim. The floor was bottom-grade tiling. The steel columns’ marble panelling ended well before their final height. The panels on the ceiling looked uneven. Tapping on the wall, Dave heard a hollow sound—a tell-tale sign of a too-thin partition. He stomped on the floor like he often did in houses he inspected and was rewarded by a slight creaking noise.

Dave understood what had happened—a tale as old as time when it came to overambitious plans, incompetent owners, profit-seeking general contractors, insane schedules and overworked subcontractors. So many corners had been gleefully cut that the result was a big ball of junk.

He looked at Harry and raised an eyebrow. Harry raised an eyebrow and nodded back.

“Can I see the bathroom?”

Harry chuckled. “Of course.”

“Need to go, Dave?” asked Gabi playfully.

“I just want to check something. You can come along and be amazed at a men’s bathroom.”

Harry led them to the nearest bathroom. Inside, Dave kneeled down and looked at the plumbing. You could tell a lot by plumbing, and this was all cheap components—lowest-bidder stuff that you could pick up in builders’ packs at the nearest Home Depot. He touched one of the golden pipes and tapped on it. His eyes widened. The noise he heard back was plastic—PVC painted as gold. He scratched and some gold paint remained under his fingernail.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” repeated Harry behind him. Too polite to tell Dave what he really thought, but happy that Dave was coming to the same conclusion.

Dave tsked and washed his hands, scrubbing the gold flakes. Unfortunately, we went too vigorously at his and his hand scratched the underneath of the faux-marble countertop over the sink.

“Aaah! Fuck!” he gasped.

“Dave!” said Gabrielle. “Are you okay?”

He wasn’t—there was an unpolished burr in the countertop and it had just scratched a gash in the back of his hand, opposite the thumb. Only an inch long and shallow enough that it wouldn’t require stitches, but dark-red blood quickly pooled in the scratch, dripping into the sink.

“First aid kit,” he said simply as Harry and Sonia made concerned noises—but Gabi was already on it. 

“Hey, I can get help,” said Harry.

“No need, we’re got it,” said Gabrielle.

In their third equipment case, there was a small container of plasters, bandages and field disinfectants. Exactly the kind of thing you might need when poking around dark basements and inside old constructions. After the second time it happened and the embarrassment of seeking first-aid supplies from the house owners, they had made the kit an essential part of their loadout. Not that they ever expected to use it in the White House.

She handed him glue and bandages. Efficiently, he washed his hand—so much blood from such a small scratch—, then poured glue over the wound and pressed a first bandage on it. This would close the wound enough that he wouldn’t need to worry about it. 

Although it would nag at him. As with all shallow cuts, it exposed the nerves under the skin without severing them, so it hurt like a son of a bitch and would keep hurting like a son of a bitch for a few hours, then sting dully for a day or two. 

Satisfied that the glue was taking hold, he put a second bandage on top of it. It was close enough to the tone of his skin to be almost imperceptible at first glance, and easily blended in the footage.

“Wow, you guys are professional,” said Sonia, clearly put off by the sight of blood.

“Good job,” said Harry. “I wish I could say that this is the East Wing’s first blood, but there have been a few accidents over here already. You know—”

“—Late schedules, overworked contractors, dodgy safety procedures?” answered Dave, lightly flexing his hand to check motricity.

“I’m glad you were the one saying it.”

“Well, I think we’ve seen everything we needed already.”

They exited the bathroom and walked north. A few semi-temporary structures had been built at the entrance of the ballroom to act as administrative and catering offices, but their main function was to act as placeholders linking the ballroom to the new east colonnade leading to the executive residence.

“The thing is,” said Sonia while walking through the ballroom, “the destruction of the East Wing had a strong symbolic value. For decades, it was the softer third of the White House—where the visitors were greeted, where the first lady had her offices, where the movie theatre was installed, and where the correspondence and communication staff did business. It wasn’t the diplomatic suite of the executive residence, nor the hard-edged political battlefield of the west wing. It was the closest that the White House was to the people. Oh-”

Dave was startled as the older woman made a noise—her foot had caught in a small uneven tile on the floor.

“It’s a symbol of this administration,” she said, regaining her stride, “that it would be simply destroyed on a whim and replaced by something only of interest to donors and party bagmen.”

Yeah, they had seen enough.

“This place hasn’t had time to accumulate ghosts, yet,” said Harry. “I think you’ll find the basements of the Executive Residence more interesting when it comes to chills and thrills.”

🏛️

Mid-afternoon was pure madness. Peggy was this close to blowing a casket.

She wasn’t answering her phone anymore unless it was from one of the half-dozen people she absolutely had to talk to. In between managing the cabinet dinner and the ongoing AI bubble crisis, she barely had thirty seconds in between firefighting. Items were piling up and every fifteen minutes brought some fresh new shit to manage.

“A third person just set themselves on fire on Pennsylvania Avenue,” said the Press Secretary gleefully. “Barely half an hour after the previous one’s corpse was taken away. Good fucking riddance.”

“Must have been some woke snowflake!”

They both laughed. One less voter to deal with!

“They closed down Pennsylvania. We should sell tickets and cans of gasoline. Matches are on us. At least we’d make some money out of it.”

“And get to see some of them burn.”

They laughed again. It was good to have a moment of fun in the middle of such a shitty day.

The Press Secretary left, and Peggy got the Chief Usher on the line.

“How are we doing on the dinner?”

“The entire cabinet has confirmed they’d be there. The billionaires are flying in. We’ve got the pool photographer and cameraman on standby.”

“Kitchen and support staff?”

“All the prep will be done by six. The cleaning crew will leave by five o’clock and pick up tomorrow morning.”

“Great. The fewer the people, the better.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That includes you.”

“Of course.”

She ended the call. It rang again before she could even put the phone back in her pocket. She checked the caller ID: Veep-Veep.

She sighed. Vice-President Kean wasn’t one of her favourite people. She’d been critical of his selection—he was a political opportunist of the first order who had done considerable mileage criticizing Blunt as one of the “moderates” before flipping his tune entirely once Blunt took the lead again in the polls. But she understood that he’d been part of a package deal with the billionaires—pick our boy, they’d said in smoke-filled backrooms, and we’ll help you. And help them they had. 

The help hadn’t stopped at the election: Blunt was so uninterested in running government that he let the billionaires set the entire political agenda. While Blunt enjoyed the presidential pageantry and lording his victory over his enemies, the billionaire-financed think-tanks prepared the executive orders and the media speaking points. Norms, traditions and laws mattered little when there were regulations to dismantle, tax rates to be cut, legal threats to their oligarchy to neutralize and money to be made. Peggy had seen how some people got previews of federal announcements and made money out of knowing which way the market was going to blow. But that was small potatoes compared to setting an agenda that strictly favoured the rich as long as a side order of cultural war kept the idiotic masses divided.

Peggy could live with all of this, and that wasn’t her beef with Kean. She was herself getting richer, and that was the sweetest revenge over every single person who had belittled her along the way. 

But Kean—ugh. Initially known for an autobiography that took a steaming shit over the underprivileged corner of Oregon he came from, Kean had started believing his own hype. His relish at Blunt’s decline was too obvious—he was practically trying out the chair in the Oval Office. It wasn’t clear to Peggy whether he was forgetting that he was a puppet of the billionaires, or if he was enthusiastic about it. Someone at the NSA had sent Peggy a really interesting package of intercepted communications between Kean and other parties that had led to the early foiling of an assassination plot against the President, and Peggy was still mulling how to make use of this.

All of this to say that she wasn’t Kean’s biggest fan. In fact, she hoped that she would never be alone in an isolated place with him because only one of them would walk out of the room—and she was confident about her chances against veep-veep tubby boy.

“Chief of staff, make it quick.”

“Yeah, it’s about that cabinet dinner.”

“You’re invited. Isn’t that enough? See you there.”

“Wait! I’ve got one more guest to put on the list. Thursk is coming to town.”

Peggy bit down on her lip. She could tell Kean to go suck her dick in response, except that he was dumb enough to take the request literally. It probably wouldn’t bother him nor would it make much of a difference long-term: she served at the pleasure of the president and if he took over, she was going to be fired within thirty seconds no matter what. Instead, she chose to waste a few minutes in an attempt to make nice.

“You are aware that there’s a limited number of seats.”

“Just add a chair.”

Yeah, on top of the President’s seat, no doubt.

“The meal prep is almost over.”

“Yes, but Thursk doesn’t eat.”

No, he drinks blood from virgin boys, she thought. Allegedly.

“He did tell us he wasn’t coming.”

“He changed his mind.”

“And why am I learning this from you?”

“He tried calling, but you’re not answering.”

She winced. Of course, this was power-play bullshit: Thursk was doing this to keep people off-guard, avoid any mention of his name being included in the official list of attendees, or simply to piss her off. Using no less than the Vice-President of the United States as his messenger boy.

Not that she had any choice. Fine, then, Thursk could barge into the country’s most exclusive dinner and get his chair. He had paid for the privilege, after all. The Chief Usher would scream, but that was his job. Frankly, she would enjoy passing on some misery on such a terrible day. 

Chapter 5 — Into the Basement

Late afternoon, and Dave was feeling pretty good about the day so far. Harry had taken them on a complete tour of the White House, occasionally passing on a section of the sight-seeing to someone on his staff so that he could attend to some business, but otherwise being a very knowledgeable guide. Sonia provided the on-air commentary with Dave, and Gabrielle looked as if she was having a ball filming the White House. 

Best of all, none of them had had time to dwell on the still-vivid self-immolation, or obsess about the news.

Their tour hadn’t been ghost-oriented so far, though: They’d stuck to the above-ground floors and the areas that weren’t off limit to visitors. They’d steered clear of the ground floor of the West Wing because, as the constant flurry of people walking quickly constantly reminded them, this was a day of crisis and the White House was at work. They’d also stayed away from the Executive Residence’s State Dinner Room because a fancy dinner of some sort was going to happen there—but as Harry had said, if they were up to the long hours, they would probably be able to visit the West Wing while the dinner would take place. Maybe even the Oval Office.

So, they’d decided to drop by the White House Mess and have a short meal in order to recharge their batteries (an expression Gabi was taking seriously, considering how she was plugging a power bar into the wall socket). Dave offered to pay, but Harry wasn’t having any of it — “You’re here on my account, as my guests. Plus, this is one of the best days I’ve had in months, so that’s part of my thanks to you.”

Dave noticed that Harry’s intentions in getting here may have gone slightly beyond eating and providing a meal to his visitors—after the ushers had taken their order, he left them alone to have a quick chat with the chef, and it was obvious from the blushing, furtive gazes and laughing that something was going on there between those two.

Meanwhile, Sonia was running a hushed near-non-stop commentary on the White House, its history and key events. She explained the reasons why the US Navy was providing meals to the presidential staff, and gushed about the nautical-inspired wood panelling décor of the mess. Dave hoped the digital recorder was still going on and capturing most of what she said, because it would make terrific voice-over material on background footage.

“Happy with the footage so far?” he asked Gabrielle when Sonia excused herself to go to the washroom.

“Couldn’t be better. Sure, it’s all tourist-level stuff so far, but we need that for the rest to be taken seriously.”

“The stuff from Sonia is going to cut well.”

“For sure. I mean, I don’t expect to go running into Lincoln down there.”

“I know. The best we can hope for is a few spooky creaks, some old rusting pipes and ghost stories.”

“Works for me. At least we get a free meal out of it.”

They chuckled, and he squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.

As he often did, Dave caught himself thinking how lucky he was to be with her.

“So, what do you think is going on there?” he said, nodding toward Harry and the chef.

“I think they’re working their way to the kind of action we got last night,” she winked.

“He deserves it. I like the guy.”

“He’s pretty much you in twenty years. By then, you could have a joint podcast geeking out about building maintenance and mechanical engineering.”

Before Dave could reply anything, Harry came back with a plate of aperitifs, which he set at the table.

“I hope you’re hungry, because there’s more coming. Delilah will get us a few more sides and desserts.”

“Only because she likes you, right?” said Gabrielle.

Harry didn’t answer, clearly embarrassed. Under the table, Dave tapped her leg with his foot. Heeey, don’t embarrass the reason why we’re here.

“We’ll be headed downstairs next?” diverted Gabrielle.

“The White House never really sleeps, especially today,” said Harry, “but after five, the only people moving around are the political staff. We’ll have a lot less traffic in the basements. Although I hear there’s a big dinner tonight.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

Sonia came back and sat at the table.

“No, we’ll just need to stay away from the state floor. Which we’ve seen already.”

“I missed something,” said Sonia. “Why are we to stay away from there?”

“Some kind of dinner.”

“Oh, right, the cabinet dinner. It was a big thing in the news this morning. I imagine it’s all high security.”

“Yeah, they don’t like it when the Morlocks get too close to the Eloi.”

“Sounds fascinating, though—I’ve always wanted to be a fly on the wall for that kind of stuff. Be in the room where it happens, so to speak. Hear how they really make decisions. Although, in my experience in academic politics, it’s usually disappointing—these people aren’t that smarter than us.”

“Why are they there, then?” asked Dave.

“They usually have more experience at dealing with this kind of high-level material than we do. They get advice from people who know what they’re doing—although it’s not a given that they listen to them. As for the elected officials, they were somehow able to convince voters that they ought to be the ones making decisions.”

A hush passed on the table, not solely because the waiters brought them their food. Dave had the impression that all of the three other people at the table wanted to say something but couldn’t because of the place, the company or simple politeness.

They dug in.

“At least this food is really good,” said Dave to break the logjam. And it was—he had picked the West Wing Burger, and even such a pedestrian dish was executed to perfection: great sear on the patty, which stayed juicy on the inside and was accompanied with great condiments.

The rest of the party agreed—everyone was happy with their meals.

As they were polishing off the last of their plates, a fifty-something black woman dropped by. It was the chef that Harry had spent a bit too much time with.

Dave could understand why—she had one of those friendly faces and a big smile. She looked sharp in a chef’s outfit, and, best of all, she brought dessert.

“I hear you’re Harry’s new friends?” she said, sitting at an unoccupied chair. “Here’s something sweet to get you through shooting.”

“Hey, that’s Delilah,” said Harry, slightly nervous, “she’s one of the chefs here. Usually in the big kitchen, though.”

Delilah sighed.

“It’s been a crazy day. Prepping a meal for the state dinner, even though half of my staff is calling sick or going home early. Same issue with the mess, so I’m trying to fill in. Fortunately, things are under control enough at the moment. I can take five minutes. I need to take five minutes.”

“I get it.  I’ve served my share of slammed shifts,” said Gabi.

“Oh, a fellow service professional?”

“Just waiting tables a few years ago. Not being a chef.”

“Hey, it’s all the same team to me. Except I’m fast losing everyone. There’s something in the air. Probably the news. Hopefully, I’ll keep the people I need tonight to serve the state dinner.”

“Hey, you never know, we may still be around if you need us,” said Sonia, clearly still on her fly-on-the-wall flight of fancy.

They chuckled.

“So, you’ve known Harry long?” said Dave.

It was Gabi’s turn to kick him under the table.

“The White House staff is pretty small,” said Harry quickly. “We can’t help but see each other all the time.”

“I joined six months ago,” explained Delilah, “and Harry’s been really helpful—“

They could hear her phone buzz. Delilah interrupted herself and looked at the screen.

Apologetically, she got up.

“Ah, well, it was nice to take a break with you guys, but they need me in the big kitchen. See you later, Harry!”

After Delilah left, Harry explained that, normally, only high-ranking officials were allowed in the mess. He himself qualified on a technicality, but he had made sure to time their presence with the midafternoon lull. They pretty much had the mess to themselves at this hour, but it wouldn’t last. In other words—they really shouldn’t dawdle any longer than necessary.

Indeed, fifteen minutes and one lecture from Sonia about White House food preparation later, they were out of there. 

“You know, Sonia,” said Harry as he led them through the West Wing basement. “I was skeptical but you may actually know more about this place than I do.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “I just spent the last three days reading whatever I could find. I’m sure you’re about to show us things that can’t be found anywhere online.”

“That’s right,” Harry smiled. “I’m about to take you to the basement.”

“Ooh, I’m going to want to record this,” said Dave.

🏛️

Somehow, the day kept getting worse and worse.

It wasn’t just the news, although those were getting awful as well. The FAA was shutting down American airspace after two more airplane crashes earlier during the afternoon. From secure channels, Miranda knew that it was because they’d discovered credible evidence of Russian hacking into the air traffic controller channels and driving planes into the ground. Protests were turning violent in at least seven major cities. Forbidden from using Pennsylvania Avenue, three more people had set themselves on fire south of the White House. The National Guard in four red states was being moved to borders with blue states, with escalating rhetoric between governors, and spontaneous protests popping up near red state houses.

Even a news junkie like Miranda couldn’t keep up, and part of it was because her phone kept ringing. Four other Cabinet members had called to ask whether she’d be at the dinner, even if she suspected that they didn’t all want her there for the same reason.

The day also kept getting worse in that she wasn’t getting a break—She’d spent the day in her chauffeured car going from one prearranged meeting to another, except that Washington traffic was spectacularly crazy today, and it got even worse the closer she came to the White House. Her planned downtime was eaten up by the traffic and phone calls. Sure, crisis days were like this, but this was worse than even the worst she’d seen.

Her phone rang. It was her son.

“Mom, I’m scared—I mean, things are getting scary out there.”

She nodded. Her boy was a bright young man, doing well at college, but not the kind to react calmly to stress.

“Hey, we’re on it. It’s not as scary as on the news,” she lied.

“Lots of people panicking around here.”

“But not you. What’s the drill? Say it with me.”

“Define your objective, identify your obstacles, use your assets,” they said together. The family credo, passed on by her father.

“What’s your objective?” she asked.

“Stay calm.”

“Your obstacles?”

“Too much information. Not enough information.”

“And your assets?”

“Well, I called you.”

They laughed.

“I’m not panicking, and I know a lot more than you do.”

“Right. Thanks mom.”

“Gotta rush to another meeting. Stay strong.”

“Love you, bye.”

Miranda hung up and looked outside the window of the car. She sounded a lot more confident than she was, but there was no need to trouble him. What’s more, she could do something to help resolve this.

Her phone rang again. She was sorely tempted to ignore it, but then she saw the caller ID:  Chief of S…

The ellipsis was carefully placed to allow for a number of interpretations. She picked up despite not wanting to.

“Miranda!” barked that unbearable Peggy woman. “When will you be at the White House?”

“I’ll be there by six, as agreed. If traffic allows it.”

“Not acceptable. If you don’t know for sure if you can make it on time, head for your office and we’ll pick you up by helicopter.”

“We’ll plan ahead.”

“Don’t be late.”

The bitch on the other end hung up, and that was a relief. Probably for them both.

Sure, superficially, they had some things in common. Both from the South, both driven enough to earn a place in Blunt’s cabinet. She had heard they were both fans of country music. But that was a short list.

As for the rest, Miranda couldn’t stand Peggy. She was trailer trash who had gotten lucky, and her nice-grandma act wasn’t fooling anyone. She was still a girl from the sticks with a chip on her shoulder who thought she could now bully back. The kind of coarse know-nothing that she and her friends used to put in her place in school. The less she saw of her, the better.

Not that she was unique in having that opinion of her—everyone in the cabinet, without any known exception, despised Peggy. Her loyalty to Blunt was excessive, although everyone understood why: without him, she’d be back in Mississippi within the day. 

Until then, she was the gatekeeper. Not that there was much to gatekeep: Blunt was increasingly irrelevant even when his demented brain cooked up enough energy to be angry about the stupidest shit. Everyone knew his social media posts were largely from Hiller, whipping up an increasingly small base of hard-core supporters. Cabinet was this close to kicking his ass to the hospice.

Well, she realized, that pretty much cemented the way she was going to vote later tonight, didn’t it?

🏛️

Harry didn’t have the dramatic flair that Dave and Sonia had, but at least he gave them enough raw material that they did the rest.

“Here we are,” said Dave to the camera, “deep down into the bowels of the White House. So far, that’s spooky enough, but there’s even worse—watch those cables!”

On cue, Gabrielle panned to a bunch of telecom fibre-optic cables that had been roughly shoved and hastily fastened into one of the ceilings of the subbasement: evidence of a rushed wiring job that had never been revisited. Not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but something that Harry could fix with enough resources and time.  Exactly the kind of thing he wanted them to highlight.

“Of course, bad cabling isn’t really the most terrifying sight in the White House. Sonia, what’s this about a ghostly resident?”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that. There have been several ghost sightings in the White House.”

“How about The Thing?”

“Ah, yes. In 1911, residents of the White House started reporting sightings of a blue-eyed boy. Some even said that they felt someone touching them on the shoulder, but when they turned, there was no one there.”

“Spooky! Now, I think some said this would be Willie Lincoln.”

“Maybe. Willie Lincoln remains the only child who died at the White House. Lincoln’s presidency was forty years distant by the time The Thing was felt, so many people made that link. There’s plenty of evidence for and against, and that’s even if you agree that a ghost was there in the first place. The Thing was quite a sensation in its day. At the time, President Taft was so worried about word of the ghost leaking out that he strictly forbade any mention of The Thing from White House inhabitants.”

“And here we are talking about it.”

“If you’re willing to be metaphorical about it, Dave, ghosts are really history made interesting. People assign a presence to something they can’t explain, but it helps make history more concrete. Was The Thing the ghost of Willie Lincoln or just a bunch of people getting hyped up on fear and the unknown? Either explanation is as interesting to me. Would Willie Lincoln be remembered so often if it wasn’t for The Thing? You could say that the ghost gives him life even centuries later.”

“Lincoln himself is said to have haunted the White House, as well.”

“That’s right. Numerous residents have reported feeling his presence or seen him. Of course, that may just be the weight of history pressing on them—everyone knows the story of Lincoln’s tragic death and everyone can picture him easily enough—contrarily to many presidents prior to the twentieth century—and everyone, no matter their parties, is fond of Lincoln. Who better to haunt this house?”

“As for me, I’m particularly interested by the ghosts that Truman heard or perceived during his presidency. Creaking noises, drapes that move by themselves, sudden drafts, doors closing on their own. This should sound very familiar to viewers of this channel.”

“And the explanation for all of these things should be just as familiar, because right after Truman’s presidency, the entire inside of the White House was torn down and rebuilt. Only the exterior shell remained. It was either that, or tear down the entire building.”

“Exactly. The noises were coming from wooden beams at the end of their lives. So many holes had been drilled in them for plumbing and cabling that they were close to snapping. Patched-up reconstruction efforts one after another, sagging floors, warped drape holders and so on. The White House is the People’s House, and you can see it even in how it’s been, at least once in its history, a major fixer-upper.”

Dave raised an eyebrow, gave a knowing glance at the camera and waited for Gabi to give him the thumbs-up.

“Perfect,” she said after the recording light had gone out.

“I really like how you’re both weaving bits and pieces of history into your patter,” said Harry.

“Practice,” shrugged Dave.

“A great verbal sparring partner,” said Sonia.

“We’ll be heading to the furnace next,” said Harry, almost despite himself. He hadn’t returned there since the burned man episode and wasn’t looking forward to it either. Superstitious nonsense, he thought.  Get a grip over yourself, Harry.

“This is creepy, though,” said Gabrielle.

She had a point. They were alone in the basement of the Executive Residence, an area normally off-limits to tourists. It was a utilitarian space only seen by White House staff. Exposed concrete, wiring, and pallets of stuff left here and there for storage. The harsh light wasn’t bad, but the knowledge of being several yards underground didn’t help things. 

Harry knew that he had been whipping himself into a ghost-fearing frenzy all day long. He’d heard noises and had dreadful feelings since morning. It was all in his head, since no one else said anything. Ah well; time to pick up the tour guide patter.

“This is the basement,” he said. “Being right under the ground floor, it’s often used to storage space for the things needed upstairs at a moments’ notice—chairs, tables, staging equipment for the East Room, even places for the performers to get ready when there’s entertainment in the upper floors. The basement is also where my crew and I live, but let’s go have a look at the dishwashing and storage area. It’s at the end of the hall.”

As the small group moved down the corridor, he heard a muffled thud in the distance behind them.

Oh, my overactive imagination again.

But Gabrielle heard it too, from the way she turned and brought up the camera. 

There was another thud, slightly less muffled and slightly closer. It still seemed to come from the end of the corridor. All of them were now looking in the same direction.

Then another thud, closer and sharper.

Thud. Thud, Thud, Thud, Thud, THUD, THUD THUD-THUD-THUD

It was coming toward them. Sharper and louder. Harry froze into place even if he had the impression that something was rushing toward them.

“WHAT IS—.“

There was one final THUD that was almost unbearably loud, drilling into his skull.

And then nothing.

“What was that?”

“You all heard that?”

“That wasn’t—.”

“Wait, wait, there’s an explanation,” said Dave.

Everyone looked at him.

He pointed at the plumbing ducts fastened to the ceiling.

“Water knock-back. Water hammer. What happens when there’s a pressure surge in plumbing systems.”

He didn’t sound convincing.

“Really?” asked Sonia.

“It’s, what, five o’clock? Quitting time. Probably the deadline for getting everything ready for dinner. You’ve got everyone flushing, dumping pots of water, starting the dishwashing, turning faucets on and off.”

Yeah, except that Harry had never heard anything like this before. And he spent his days in the basement.

“Okay,” said Sonia weakly.

🏛️

“Sir,” said Peggy after entering the President’s living room, “the guests will soon arrive for the cabinet dinner. Some of them will want to meet with you beforehand.”

Blunt did not respond. As usual, he was watching TV from his chair in his executive suite on the second floor of the Executive Residence. It wasn’t unusual for him to spend days here. Unless motivated by public appearances, he was singularly uninterested by the mechanics of the presidency—hence why his staff was running wild throughout his second mandate, only trotting him out for signatures and public appearances. It had gotten worse with his lack of energy—the rallies and public events that had given him a boost during his first term were too demanding now.

Away from the public eye, though, he looked old and frail—without make-up, without the boost from the “energy drinks” and medications they carefully measured out. 

His series of mini-stokes had left him with the right side of his face drooping—something that he struggled to control in public appearances, helped along with some carefully measured Botox injections. But at rest, it was even worse—and here he was in his bathrobe, glassy-eyed, staring at right-wing agitprop that people at the White House never took seriously except as another source of distraction and problems. 

His mouth was slightly open, with a few droplets of drool sliding off his chin. For a moment, Peggy thought that this was it—that, on top of everything else, they would need to deal with a presidential funeral.

But then he blinked and mumbled something.

“Pardon me, sir?”

“I SAID I’LL SHOW UP WHEN I FUCKING DAMN WANT TO,” he barked abruptly.

Involuntarily and unforgivably, she stepped back, blinking. She should have known better. Nothing held the old man together like spite and anger. She glanced at the TV screen—footage of riots. After a few hours of that, he was cranked up and ready to explode.

“I JUST WANT TO BE LEFT ALONE! WHY IS THIS TOO HARD FOR YOU RETARDS TO UNDERSTAND?”

Peggy twitched. Coming from someone she’d shielded all day long, that was rich. Oh yeah? She could make him jump too.

“Thursk is flying in. Late addition to the dinner.”

It was gratifying to see a flicker of alarm in Blunt’s eye as he visibly deflated. For someone who liked to portray himself as a strongman, the truth was that Blunt feared a long list of people. Most of them with a hold on him. It was almost as funny to see him try to be firm with them in public when he knew they could unleash a few nasty surprises on him, especially since he was a lame-duck president. The press conferences with the Russian president were always entertaining in that way.

“The airspaces are closed,” he mumbled in a much softer voice.

“That won’t stop Thursk,” she said. “He’ll fly military if he has to.”

Blunt mumbled acquiescence.

“I’ll send him up when he gets here. As for the rest, you are expected for pictures and the opening statement of the dinner at six. The make-up artist will be here in ten minutes.”

Chapter 6 — Last Chance to Leave

Things weren’t going well in the White House basement, but Harry was the only one noticing it.

Having spent years examining, fixing and maintaining these machines, Harry knew that something was off. He wouldn’t have been able to explain it—maybe, at best, he would have been able to say that something “felt funny” or smelled off, or the subsonic vibrations were unusual. But anyone else would have shrugged at the lack of better indicators. The machines were running, right? Fans, heating, plumbing: all working.

But Harry knew otherwise. Everything felt wrong. Some fans were running slower, and some were running faster. The water through the pipes sounded wrong.

Worse yet; it seemed as if the variations themselves were changing. At times, he swore the fans changed pitch. Were harmonizing.

Maybe it was all in his head. Probably was all in his head—with the two chatterboxes talking their heads off about supernatural phenomena, as if the House itself was its own entity, it was hard to stay detached. 

Maybe he’d put in for a long weekend to clear his head—drive to the countryside for a bit.

In the meantime, his intrepid ghost hunters were shooting footage in the least photogenic area of the house: the concrete-walled central corridor of the basement, between the air conditioning plant and the electrical switches.

“In some cultures,” said Sonia, “It’s said that a house becomes alive once it has been the site of a birth, a marriage and a death. By this metric, the White House is venerable—ten deaths, nineteen weddings and at least twelve births, some of them to slaves working in the household.”

“Let’s talk about that some more,” suggested Dave. “Is it true that the White House was built by slaves?”

“True enough. The District of Columbia was carved out of two pro-slavery states, and slaves were used alongside labourers and artisans as a cheap workforce, especially for heavy, low-skilled work.”

“Did slaves die while building the White House?”

“We don’t know. Records don’t list such things, but they may not reflect the reality of what happened.”

“And slaves worked in the White House afterwards?”

“Most of the early presidents were slave owners, and they brought their own personal slaves to cut labour costs rather than employ free people as part of their household staffs. This went on for half a century—from the earliest days of the White House to the last slave to have worked here in 1850. Very little of the 1850 House remains here—largely the exterior walls, certainly not this basement—but if you subscribe to the theory that the House remains whole even as it changes, then yes, slaves have built this place and been enslaved in this place.”

“Wow, that’s a lot to take in.”

“That’s the price of history—to fully understand something, you often have to know the less pleasant aspects of it as well.”

They both waited a beat until Gabrielle called a cut.

“I’ll go get a few insert shots,” said Gabrielle.

And off she went, staying within hearing distance but capturing footage of the corridor, a few inserts of the equipment, and long shots of Dave and Sonia, who kept up a light convincing patter. Harry stayed away, unwilling to appear on camera and wise to the shooting tricks by now.

For someone increasingly convinced that there was something wrong with the White House machinery, Harry hadn’t seen much that would have been of interest to his filming crew: Sure, they had gotten enough footage of dimly lit corridors and machine rooms, messy equipment workshops and plumbing (some of it pleasantly rusty). Harry had pointed out most of the things he wanted them to highlight as justification for a slightly bigger budget, and they had tsked-tsked along with him at the right places.

But the ghost of Lincoln himself hadn’t been cordial enough to drop by for a chat on the weather.

Oh well; they probably expected as much, and they still weren’t bored with exploring the building. There was one more place to visit this deep down.

“Let’s have a look at the furnace,” he said.

Gabrielle was first to enter the room, camera in hand. 

Harry had sent an assistant to take a few gas readings every day, but the man reported nothing wrong, and was starting to wonder why this warranted so much attention. 

There was nothing amiss here. His assistant had cleaned up a few things while he had been here, but there was no evidence of a charred man anywhere.

Gabrielle shot the room and then inserts of the furnace, but even Sonia had nothing to say about the furnace.

Maybe Harry had been hoping for an explanation. For someone to share his experience. Was he the biggest coward for not telling them about his experience in the furnace room? Didn’t he have the best ghost story of them all to tell?

But no. He would not say anything. He was the Chief Engineer of the White House, damn it – not some nervous nelly.

After a few minutes, he shuffled them outside.

“That’s pretty much the tour of the basement.”

“Not the lowest basement, though,” suggested Sonia.

Ah, yes.

“Can’t talk about that, I’m afraid. In fact, even though I’ve seen the same rumours as you have, anything else under the building would not be under my authority.”

That wasn’t quite a lie, but not quite the truth either. Harry had no authority in what were called the “extra-residential” areas dug under the White House—they were usually under military control, with armed forces personnel handling everything from cleanup to infrastructure maintenance and repairs. 

But as chief engineer, it wasn’t difficult to notice when extra systems were hooked up to the electrical grid, when new plumbing requirements led to urgent and well-financed new infrastructure, or when the communications networks were all routed elsewhere, which explained why there was nothing more than a routing cabinet in the Executive Residence in lieu of a data centre.

“You’re talking about the bunkers, right?” asked Dave.

“There are a few more basements to this building,” said Sonia.

“Should I film this?” asked Gabrielle.

“No,” both said Sonia and Harry.

“It’s pure speculation, and it would land our friend Harry in trouble,” said Sonia.

“I’d rather not confirm or deny anything,” said Harry.

“Fair enough,” said Dave. “I don’t think that those places have any ghosts anyway.”

They went outside the furnace, back into the central corridor. Gabrielle picked up a few more shots of the furnace room and followed them.

Harry looked at his phone for time:  Now that the dinner was starting upstairs, they would have more freedom to walk inside the West Wing to wrap up their visit.

“All right, I’ve got what I wanted,” said Gabrielle, signalling that they could regroup.

“Got a shot of the floor? Standard walk-up,” suggested Dave.

“Oh, good idea,” said Gabrielle.

She turned on the camera and walked a few paces, shooting the concrete floor.

THUD

All four of them looked in the same direction. 

THUD.

Again, the thudding seemed to come from the east end of the corridor, and as it went on, it came closer. 

THUD, THUD

Not as loud as the previous one, but to Harry’s ears, it didn’t seem to come from the pipes—it seemed to come from the middle of the corridor, as it someone was banging a loud drum in the middle of it… and jogging toward them.

THUD, THUD, THUD-THUD-THUD

He almost flinched as the last few THUDs seemed to run over them.

Then there was silence.

Then he heard a voice. A child’s whisper.

“Leave now. You are in danger.”

Goosebumps raced up Harry’s spine. From the expressions of everyone else, they had heard it too.

“This… this wasn’t the pipes,” said Sonia.

“Let’s check the tape,” suggested Harry.

Gabrielle was startled, as if Harry had suggested something taboo.

“We can make an exception this time,” said Dave.

“If something else happens, I won’t be able to film it,” said Gabrielle reluctantly.

“Just thirty seconds,” said Dave, gesturing for the camera.

She gave it to him, but wasn’t happy about it. Dave took the camera, switched it in playback and ran the tape again while everyone clustered around him to watch.

They heard the thud-Thud-THUD again.

Then their reaction, then silence, until the end of the tape.

“I heard it. I know I heard it,” said Harry. 

“What did it say?”

“A kid’s voice, saying, ‘Leave now. You are in danger.’”

“That’s not what I heard,” said Sonia. “I heard ‘You won’t survive if you stay. Leave now.’”

Gabrielle frowned. “I heard ‘You can leave at any time. Don’t wait too long.’”

There was a silence.

“What did you hear, Dave?”

Dave hesitated a moment. “Same thing as Gabrielle.”

“We can always leave,” said Sonia.

“No!” both said Dave and Gabrielle.

“This is what we’re looking for,” said Dave.

“I’m not turning back now,” said Gabrielle.

Harry was half-tempted to run upstairs himself. But he’d regret that. He was an engineer, a rationalist, and perhaps the last sane man in the White House. He wouldn’t run at the first spooky thing. Maybe this was radio interference in the metal pipes or in their tooth fillings, broadcasting some horror TV movie. They said they heard different things, but it was pretty much the same message that weighed on their minds. Danger. Leave.

That’s what happened when you spent the day priming yourself up for scary shit.

“Hey, if you want to see horror, I can show you the dentist’s office,” suggested Harry with a light tone. “There are a few more places to see… then we can go see if the big spooky Oval Office is open to visitors.”

“All right, I’m in,” said Sonia without enthusiasm.

“That’s the spirit!” said Gabrielle as she took back her camera.

🏛️

The last few hundred metres to the White House’s entrance had almost been down to hand-to-hand fighting. Well, not quite, but Miranda was really happy that her driver wasn’t fazed by anything.

The radio partially explained what was going on—among so many bad news at the national level, protesters had converged toward the White House as the afternoon went on. About a dozen more people had set themselves on fire, and it turned out that guides on “the best way to self-immolate” were the newest viral sensation on social media despite attempts to remove them. 

Pre-soak your clothes in gasoline; carry a waterproof lighter; write your message in a heavy carpet so that it will remain in place after your death. Get drunk to lessen the pain. Light your chest on fire first and inhale deeply so that you will pass out from the fumes.

The Secret Service was spreading itself thin trying to close off protest avenues—armed forces were being called to help, but the mass of protesters was quickly overwhelming all available personnel.

A coffee cup was thrown against the side window of the SUV, leaving a splatter.

Just as Miranda was wondering if she would need to be evacuated out of her SUV by helicopter, the way cleared: they had made it to the cordoned-off area where police were funnelling authorized vehicles to the closed-off Pennsylvania Avenue, then onto the driveway leading to the Executive Residence’s North Portico. A lineup of departmental SUVs was in front of them.

She looked at her phone. So much for trying to be early—everyone else in the cabinet had gotten the same idea.

Still, the line advanced quickly—no one was eager to dawdle a long time outside the White House.

It was getting dark by the time she exited the SUV, and cold. February in Washington—once her cabinet position was over, she would go back south and never come back.

Marines in dress uniform stood guard as she walked under the portico, from her SUV to the north entrance of the White House. How many people had walked into her footsteps? Nearly every foreign dignitary had come in to the White House this way rather than the utilitarian West Wing entrance or the tourists’ East Wing entrance. Countless foreign politicians, honourees of the President, celebrities and heroes. And her.

A marine opening the surprisingly small door for her, she stepped into the White House Entrance Hall. She’d been here a few times before, so she knew what to expect: The salmon-and-cream checkerboard marble flooring, the six columns standing guard in front of her, the Steinway grand piano with eagle legs, and the glass chandelier. 

And the portraits of past presidents watching her actions.

Unlike the previous times she’d been here, there was no pomp or pageantry in the Entrance Hall. A few clusters of cabinet members were discussing—otherwise, people were clearly encouraged to walk down to the State Dining Room.

She stepped forward so that she wouldn’t be in the way of the next person to enter. The central corridor leading to the State Dining Room was in front of her. To her left was the staircase leading up to the President’s floor; to her right, a large mirror stood behind the Minerva clock. 

She took a moment to check how she looked. Not bad, all things considered—the day had been one drive after another, but at least her make-up was holding up and the rain hadn’t touched her hair thanks to the portico. She felt how it was starting to curl from the humidity, but it would be barely perceptible to anyone else.

She joined one of the discussion clusters. Gord Stassen was there, talking to two other similarly minded cabinet members: Transportation and Veterans’ Affairs were also result-oriented in their approach to their departments, and they weren’t strict ideologues or empty airheads like the others. They stayed out of the news by keeping their heads down and not posting dumb stuff on social media, which was an underrated skill in this administration.

“I’m surprised they let you out of New Jersey Avenue,” she said to the Secretary of Transportation. Of all people here, he must have had the worst day, what with the airspace shutdown.

“Don’t tell me about it. I’ll have to go back once this is over, probably to sleep there. Our friend in the West Wing made sure I was coming.”

She nodded. Only one “cabinet member” worked from the West Wing—the Chief of Staff, who wasn’t considered a real Cabinet member anyway.

“This AI bubble shit is touching everything,” added the Secretary of Veterans Affairs. “Our phone lines were clogged with calls about whether pensions were going to be touched or not.”

“Meanwhile, Commerce is having the time of his life,” nodded Gord toward the other cluster. Contrary to their sombre discussions, the chuckleheads that Blunt had picked for their media profile rather than their executive chops were laughing it up. Commerce, Defence and Homeland were backslapping each other about something.

“I spent the day listening to the news,” said Gord. Everyone nodded.

He didn’t have to add more—everyone knew just how catastrophic things were getting. The Dow had stopped trading at three o’clock and had not resumed in the face of historic losses. “End of Times,” called the normally boring Wall Street Journal. The NASDAQ had only lasted fifteen more minutes. American stocks were getting clobbered in other exchanges, and it was spreading to other markets heavily invested in the US. None of this was a strictly abstract concern—two massive pension funds had signalled their inability to pay out the next month’s round of checks, and fear was gripping Wall Street. FreedomAI was for sale for a bargain price that didn’t even cover their electricity bill, but no one was buying. Other tech giants were teetering—it was only because of their massive cash reserves that they weren’t on the auction block, but even there the alarms were blaring. All told, the Dow had lost sixty percent of its value in two weeks and people were talking about 1929.

“And now we have to fix it.”

🏛️

The Oval Office was a disappointment, thought Dave. Or rather a massive let-down, a disappointment of titanic proportions, the like of which would never be seen again. Or something.

Sonia and Gabrielle looked similarly unenthusiastic.

“Don’t worry,” said Harry, “Everyone feels the same.”

“It’s so small,” voiced Dave.

The office of the most powerful person in the country was smaller than some living rooms. There was just enough space for the famous Resolute desk, two sofas facing a small coffee table, and another pair of chairs. How the media managed to fit in here for a press conference he’d never know.

“Built as a working office,” shrugged Harry. “Decades ago, before television.”

“Your office is bigger than this!” said Sonia.

“I would be if I cleaned it up,” admitted Harry. “But the President doesn’t keep maintenance supplies in here.”

No, but this version of the Oval Office was anything but minimalist. In fact, it looked cluttered. Blunt had crammed as many gilded portraits, gilded flags, gilded decorations, gilded vases and gilded furniture as possible. The formerly austere space had been transformed into a tacky display of… was it wealth or bad taste?

“Feh,” mumbled Gabrielle, having turned off the camera to take in the office. “Feels more tinpot dictator chic than presidential,” she said while looking at the solid-gold bust of the President.

That was going maybe too far, but knowing Gabrielle’s personal antipathy for the President, Dave had to admit that she’d been restrained in her commentary. Being behind the camera gave her something else to do.

“Can we shoot a promo spot from here?” said Dave. “Sitting at the desk, maybe?”

Harry shook his head. “We’re not even supposed to be here. Let’s not have video evidence of it.”

“All right.”

“But thanks for asking.”

“I really don’t like this thing,” said Sonia, pointing at the solid gold bust. “There’s something… off about it.”

Everyone agreed. Dave knew, from an extended rant from Gabi a few days before, just how much she hated the thing from principle alone, but it was even more off-putting in person. He could barely stand to look at it.

“We can tour the rest of the West Wing if you want,” said Harry, “but there isn’t much to see. Although I’m surprised at how deserted the place is, while the dinner is taking place over there.”

He pointed outside, where they could see the lights in the State Dining Room in the Executive Residence.

“Then again, my whole crew got told to go home early for the night, so maybe they said the same to the staff.”

Harry’s phone chirped. He picked it up and frowned.

“Hmmm.”

“Something strange?”

“Whenever we’re done here, Delilah needs some help.”

Dave raised an eyebrow at Gabi.

“From you three if you’re still here.”

“Well, I’m done here,” said Sonia. “Not as impressive as I thought.”

“I’ll feel better once we’re away,” said Gabrielle.

🏛️

“In the dining room now,” said Peggy to the last stragglers in the Entrance Hall. 

She nodded at the last remaining Secret Service agent, who spoke into his headset. They had browbeaten the Secret Service in cutting down on the number of agents for the dinner – three of them, from the President’s personal details.  They rest would wait outside.  They were in the White House – the safest place on Earth. 

Let’s get this thing over, she thought. She didn’t have much hope that the dinner would lead to anything, but at least the photos would play well to the crowds.

She intended to personally close the door on the participants. As the last cabinet members walked into the room, she heard the last two attendees come down the stairs from the suite upstairs.

President Blunt and Raymond Thursk.

Thursk had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, flown in through Marine One. Without greeting anyone, he had headed up to see Blunt in his private office, the secret service agents letting him pass without challenge.

Peggy had hoped that something would have kept him away—the airspace closure, the difficulty in reaching the White House, mechanical issues, even his own mercurial whims. But there he was, technically on time.

Walking alongside Blunt with an immaculate black suit, he didn’t waste a moment and headed for the State Dining Room without breaking stride. Next to the visibly aged Blunt, Thursk looked far more presidential. There was something else as well—Blunt looked dejected despite being hopped up on the meds, while Thursk looked as if he’d just won something.

They both passed Peggy, with Thursk nodding perfunctorily in her direction as if this was a perfectly normal occurrence.

With no one looking, Peggy rolled her eyes. She hated everything about this—the way he walked into the White House as if it was his own, how he took the spotlight away from the President, and, most of all, whatever he’d just discussed upstairs. It was a well-known fact that whoever spoke last with Blunt had a fair chance of seeing their argument take precedence. What had he just said to the President? She’d learn fast enough: Blunt would spill it within thirty minutes.

The Entrance Hall now being empty, she closed the march to the State Dining room and signalled to the pool photographer to go do her job. The photojournalist had been standing next to the entrance of the dining room, underneath JFK’s presidential portrait, to take pictures of the entering dignitaries.

While all the former American presidents had their portraits displayed in the building, John F. Kennedy’s official White House portrait stood out from the pack. Unlike the other portraits showing dignified statesmen staring right at the viewer, JFK’s depiction showed him looking down, arms crossed as if deep in thought. The entire portrait was executed in shades of brown in painterly style with visible brushstrokes. It was a striking departure from the other presidential portraits and a sobering reminder of JFK’s untimely fate.

Facing JFK’s portrait in the short corridor leading to the State Dining Room was Ronald Reagan with a far more classical portrait, the man smiling to the viewer. Morning in America, thought Peggy. She felt like JFK looked, but she should take her cues from the Gipper’s chipper expression instead.

She stepped into the room and pulled the sliding doors together.

All right, let’s do this.

 

 

 

Section 2
Inside the House

 

 

Chapter 7 — The Twenty-Fifth

“Do any of you have service experience?” asked Delilah. “I mean—waitressing, bartending, even bussing. Gabi, you said you had waited tables.”

They were back in the Executive Residence, in the ground-floor kitchen. Guided by Harry, they had left the Oval Office and walked through the Press Center (Gabi shooting some footage of the empty lectern along the way), then the Palm Room to make their way to the kitchen. 

Now the chef was asking them for a favour.

“I was supposed to have five waiters tonight, but three of them left an hour ago without an explanation.”

Leave now, remembered Dave.

“Now I’m stuck serving forty people expecting timely service. If you can help, that would be terrific. I’m just asking for you to push the trays and help the other two waiters who will do the bulk of it.”

“I can chip in,” eagerly said Harry.

“Not you, Harry. They know who you are. And you don’t fit the profile.”

“Neither do I,” pointed out Sonia.

“Actually, you’re a dead ringer for one of the women who went home. Just tie the hair back and we’ll get you a cap. But what I’m interested in—have any of you served in a restaurant before?”

“Two years in a sports bar,” said Gabi, as Dave knew. It had partially paid for her studies.

“It did some waitressing at a local diner, but that was thirty years ago,” said Sonia.

They turned to Dave. Gabi smiled, knowing what he was about to say.

“Two weeks bussing in an Applebee’s,” finally sighed Dave. “I wasn’t good at it.”

“At this point, I’ll take it. You’ll be on tray duty. Take your cues from our pros.”

Said pros definitely did not look impressed, but as professionals they knew that any help in a storm was appreciated—and it wasn’t as if they were asked to cook anything. Just serve and take away the plates once done.

“Wait, wait,” said Gabi. “You know I’m not American, right?”

Delilah looked at her, nonplussed. She shrugged.

“You can keep your mouth shut?”

“Sure.”

“Then I don’t care. Now go change,” she said. “We’ve got uniforms for everyone.”

🏛️

“As we know, you know, we know, there is this big crisis, a terrible crisis outside,” said the President of the United States. “Awful thing, this crisis. Awful, awful. We’re here to fix it. But first we’re going to eat, right?”

We have to activate the twenty-fifth amendment, thought again Miranda with increasing dread. Have to.

Her phone buzzed again—there was now a national-wide bank run, with people physically lining up at banks to withdraw money. All spurred up by social media. Needless to say, the banks didn’t have the cash reserves to actually give money to everyone, and things were turning as ugly as they do when messing with people’s money.

Then there were reports that at least one red state’s National Guard had been instructed to cross the border with a neighbouring blue state, heading straight for the capital.

This mumbling excuse for a leader wasn’t going to cut it. Not now. His gaze was unfocused, words unclear. He had to be led by the Chief of Staff to his chair at the head of the table, and had now twice mistaken SecDef for the Secretary of Health. 

From a few looks around the table, it was clear that there was a malaise here—who would call the emperor on his lack of clothes?

🏛️

“Looking good, my man!” said Harry to Dave a few minutes later.

Dave was not used to being in a formal suit, but that was the standard for the White House dinners. 

The older man reached out and adjusted Dave’s bow tie. There was an entire rack of spare suits in the storage spaces of the White House, and Dave had found his size easily enough. So had Sonia, although petite Gabi had pushed the limits of what was available.

She still looked spectacular in formal attire, and he’d made sure to snap a picture of her all dressed up.

She had done the same, promising with a wink that she’d “look at that picture when you’re away”.

But now showtime was coming down.

Dave had already made himself presentable for today’s shooting. They’d hurried fit Sonia and Gabrielle with hair ties and caps as per the other pros. It was a shame to see Gabi’s glorious mane of curls tamed into a tied-up ponytail, but that was the expectation.

They were now in the small pantry at the north-west corner of the State Floor—a small space connecting to the kitchen downstairs with a small circular staircase and an elevator, but more importantly to the State Dining Room through a pair of doors. The space felt even smaller with Delilah, her two pros, Harry and the three of them.

“You’re lucky,” said Delilah as a final pep talk, “in that this is a working dinner, not a formal event. Not like a state dinner. Only three courses. The cutlery is already there, and they’re not expecting wine service beyond leaving the bottles on the tables. Not in front of SecDef, though. They’re expecting us to be in and out. Don’t draw attention to yourself; just act as if you belong there. Dave and Sonia, you’re pushing the plate carts, just follow the pros. Gabi, you’ll be with me handing over the plates to our pros—they’ll set the table. Got it, team?”

“Got it,” said the five-person crew.

“Let’s do this,” she said before opening the door and leading the serving brigade into the State Dining Room.

Blend in, blend in, blend in, thought Dave before crossing the threshold of the Dining Room.

Then: Holy shit, what am I doing here?

His fingers gripped the pushing bar of the serving carts. It wasn’t just the room—it was the people. Even to someone so intently ignorant of politics, it was hard not to notice familiar faces in the flesh—the president, vice-president, the secretaries that were always in the news talking about something or another. Then the billionaires: Dave wasn’t a political junkie, but he was a technology geek and there were four CEOs of the biggest tech companies.

Stay cool, man, he said to himself. They’re not even paying attention to you and won’t unless you goof up.

He was with Delilah and Gabi, circling the left side of the square table assembled for dinner. As promised by Delilah, he didn’t have much else to do than push the cart, as Gabi took one of the twenty plates on the cart and handed it over to Delilah for placing on the table. 

As expected, no one paid any attention to them. Dave wasn’t making eye contact, and he quickly realized that they were barely recognized as humans here—they were the waitstaff, useful but invisible. He dutifully pushed the tray, trying to avoid thinking about being less than six feet away from the President.

Before he knew it, they were at the end of the table and done. The cart was now lighter and much easier to push. He followed Delilah and Gabi as they headed out of the Dining Room again and back into the small pantry.

They waited until the door was closed. The two professional waiters had stayed behind to respond to any requests.

“Not bad, for a bunch of near-amateurs,” recognized Delilah. “Our two pros will handle the moment-to-moment service. But this is the first of six rounds—appetizers. Then it’s going to be entrées and desserts, and, of course, we need to clean all up all three courses. Holding up so far?”

Dave gave her a thumb-up. 

“Jesus Christ, what a rush,” said Gabrielle. Of course, thought Dave—even if Gabi’s passion for American politics was largely adversarial these days, this was like having front seats to the Oscars’ red carpet of celebrities. Dave tried not to think about how she’d been within slapping distance of the President.

“I know, right?” said Sonia, just as starstruck.

“Eh,” dismissed Delilah with a roll of her eyes, “You won’t be so impressed by the end of the evening. Just wait until you get to pick up their dirty plates. President, politicians, trillionaires—they all still leave way too many leftovers by the end.”

🏛️

So far so good, thought Peggy as she grabbed a first bite of her appetizers. The pool photographer had completed his thing by the first twenty minutes of the dinner, capturing pictures of very serious people engaged in various serious discussions around a few very serious appetizers. No matter if the topic had been of sports and weather—almost of a common accord, attendees had agreed that discussion on serious matters would wait until after dessert plates were taken away. Food first, serious stuff later. Then they’d close the doors and have at it. 

The photographer had been dismissed, along with all but three Secret Service agents personally assigned to Blunt and Kean. They were in the White House—as secure as they could be. The ones dismissed would go wait outside in the parked cars until the end of the supper.

Something bothered Peggy about the skeleton crew serving the food. Something she felt she ought to remember, but currently escaped her recall. Maybe it was the contrast with the usually lavish state dinners served here: after all, it was her who had insisted that the waitstaff be kept at a minimum.

Speaking of a minimum—toady Hiller has managed to find a way into the room, sitting near the entrance far away from the table. That was to be expected—any policy discussion around here had to include him even if he was the source of most of the administration’s worst ideas to date.

Thursk had found a way at the head of the table, sitting on one side of the President while the Vice-President sat on the other side. Peggy noticed that the president seemed subdued—barely talking to anyone else and fixating on the content of the plates rather than eating. Uh-oh—is that the new meds?

Still, there was an undercurrent of tension, here. Too many glances from one person to another. It didn’t help that everyone’s phones were buzzing near-constantly as news alerts were rolling in. No matter if placed in “silent mode”—when forty phones simultaneously buzzed at once, it sounded like flies around the banquet.

She glanced at the latest headlines—it was a toss-up between Protesters shot in Chicago, Denver, Phoenix, Tampa and Buffalo; Data centre powerhouse ComputAzul files for bankruptcy and Fighting reported between two National Guard divisions.

🏛️

“Well done on the entrées, everyone,” cheered Delilah with the air of someone whose crazy plan was working. “Halfway done, and let’s be frank—by the time we only have the desserts to serve, they’ll care even less about us.”

Harry was enjoying this a lot. For all of the conversations that he and Delilah had had over the past few months, this was the first time he saw her fully in her element—completely at ease controlling the kitchen and the waitstaff. He liked her a lot, and he liked this aspect of her a lot.

He’d ask her out for drinks after this crazy day. He knew she was single (divorced, two adult kids doing their own thing), and he suspected that she liked him quite a bit. Maybe it was time to do something about it.

“How you’re feeling, champ?” he asked Dave.

“Less nervous every time we go out there,” said the young man. 

“Glad to hear it.”

“It burns me we can’t record any of this,” said Gabrielle. “This footage would be amazing!”

“Let’s not mess with the Secret Service,” reminded Harry. “In fact, we may need to take a look at those NDAs very carefully.”

“I know, I know,” said the young woman.

“Look, at least we’ll have the memories,” said Sonia. “I’m going to remember this for the rest of my life.”

“I could gift you a few White House plates,” suggested Delilah. “Good luck explaining that to your kids.”

🏛️

Part of the constant buzzing in the State Dining Room, knew Miranda, were the text messages that the dinner attendees were sending to each other. If, by common unspoken agreement, they had agreed to push discussion of the issues until after the meal, the preparation work was clearly going down.

She kept scrolling through her alerts. In between the news getting even grimmer—now people were firing back at the ICE agents, killing a few—, people were now seriously asking: Is this the right time? Is it time to pull the trigger on the twenty-fifth amendment?

A glance at the head of the table told her everything she needed to know. Like just about any grandpa after Thanksgiving dinner, Blunt had slunk into his chair and was now dozing off. Pathetic.

But they had to hear from the Vice-President on this. And so far, he was reading but not replying.

She wasn’t the only one glued to her screen—all around the table, people were splitting their time talking to their tablemates and glancing not-so-subtly at their phones to take in the latest.

Washington, DC, protest erupts into riot, read the latest ping. Eight new deaths by self-immolation. Protesters decked in second-amendment garb were taking aim at the police agents and national guard. Two governors were openly threatening to open fire on each other’s national guards… if it hadn’t happened already.

Things were spinning out of control, and what were they doing about it?

As the waitstaff started taking the entrée plates away, the Vice President rose.

“We can’t wait any longer.  It’s time to talk about the crisis,” he said.

People started clinking on their glasses as a sign of approval.

“You all know why we’re here. The news has been a horror show all day long. The question is to determine the plan that the federal government will follow in order to deal with this crisis. The entire cabinet is here, and so are industry leaders. This administration has been exceptionally generous with its CEO friends, and it’s time for them to help us stabilize the situation.”

The president slept on as the Vice President kept talking.

“Do we need to stabilize the situation, though?” asked Thursk.

A few What? Of course! flew from around the table.

“This economy needs an electroshock,” continued the billionaire, nose wrinkling. “Wages are still too high, protests are too prevalent, and taxes are too high. Rip off the bandage, I say. Starve the social programs that are strangling the federal budget. Bail out the job creators. You’ve got four of the magnificent sevens at the table—inject money into the AI ecosystem to calm everyone down.”

“This is bullshit!” shouted Gord. “The AI bubble is why there’s a shitshow outside! You’ve all poured hundreds of billions into something that doesn’t even work well, and you’ve never bothered to make back your costs! Giving you more money is only going to make things worse!”

“Now, now,” said the vice-president, with a slight expression of disgust, “Surely there’s a compromise to be reached here. I just think that—”

“Did the president just shit his pants?” asked the SecDef, an empty bottle of wine in front of him.

The room finally acknowledged the dozing man at the head of the table. Head tilted back, a rivulet of drool running down the side of his mouth. A loud wet fart was heard across the room, and there was no mistaking where it came from.

“Jesus Christ!” said a few people around the table.

“You’re wrong,” said that detestable Peggy woman trying to keep control of the situation. “The president did not…”

“Are we seriously arguing about who has cut the cheese at this table?” shouted someone.

“I invoke Section 4 of the twenty-fifth amendment!” shouted Gord.

And there it is, thought Miranda as the room erupted in pandemonium.

🏛️

The room was a cacophony of people shouting, often repeating themselves in order to be heard.

“You can’t! You can’t just! You can’t—.”

“Order! Order, order! Order!”

“Let’s hear him out! Let him speak!”

“Hush! Hush!”

Peggy waved off the waitstaff as they were taking the entrée plates away. They retreated to their corner of the room near the pantry. She rose and walked to the President to wake him up.

After a solid thirty seconds of shouting, some people ran out of steam, leaving only the Secretary of Labor (that backstabbing viper—Peggy had opposed his nomination from the onset) and a visibly drunk Secretary of Defense arguing it out. Who had let alcohol near that lummox?

“What gives you the right to be such a traitor?” shouted SecDef.

“Traitor? Just look at the guy! His brain is mush! He’s asleep at a cabinet dinner and he just shit in his pants!”

Peggy couldn’t argue about any of those—as the stench of presidential feces reached more people in the room, it was also convincing more and more people about how they’d vote.

She shook Blunt awake—nothing. Those fucking meds! We screwed up the dosage!

The president snored while his cabinet discussed his removal.

🏛️

Dave didn’t quite understand all of what was going on, but the near-constant stream of whispered obscenities coming in stereo from Gabi to his left and Sonia to his right suggested that this was major stuff. 

Waved away by the Chief of Staff, the waitstaff had clustered at the north-west corner of the room, holding carefully neutral positions. They would have followed Delilah in the pantry, except that she was staying in the room, waiting for a cue that the plates could be taken away.

And intently listening along, the same as everyone else.

Fortunately, no one was really looking at them—the attention was bouncing back and forth between two guys at opposite corners of the room—the drunk Secretary of Defense near the entrance of the room, and the Secretary of Labor near the back end of the room.

“That does not give you the right to attempt a coup!” said SecDef.

“This is not a coup. This is written right there in the twenty-fifth amendment. If the president is so far gone that he’s become unable to discharge his duties, then it’s our job to do what’s best.”

“You don’t know that! He’s probably just tired from his day.”

A few laughs clearly made the argument backfire.

“He’s a threat to the nation at a time when the nation needs leadership!” argued the Secretary of Labor.

🏛️

In the back-and-forth from one corner of the table to the other, Miranda noticed that the Vice-President wasn’t stepping into the discussion. She could understand part of it and suspected the other half. He didn’t want to be seen leading the charge that would end up with him as the new president. And he was probably waiting to see where the winds would blow, especially given Thursk’s presence.

Speaking of winds—the president’s shit could now clearly be smelled from her place at the table. This was only going to bolster their case.

And where was ANTLER during all of this? Where was the signal they were waiting for? Did Gord receive his, or had he jumped the gun?

“You don’t get to call for a vote on the Twenty-Fifth amendment!” repeated SecDef.

“I can, and I will. Everyone who can vote on this motion is right here in this room. Fifteen principal officers of the executive departments. Right here. Eight votes for, we notify the Speaker of the House and then we can get to work.”

“This is treason!”

“This is patriotism! I call the vote! All in favour of declaring that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, you have ten seconds to PLEASE RISE.”

Miranda’s phone beeped, as she expected it. 

ANTLER:  PLEASE RISE.

She rose. A few others did. Not as many as she expected, though. Six, seven…

Directly behind her was a fireplace. A portrait of Lincoln stood watch pensively over the room. Underneath him, the fireplace bore a carving that Miranda had re-read before taking her place at the table: “I pray Heaven to bestow the best of blessings on this House, and all that shall hereafter inhabit it. May none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof.”

The big shots remained sitting: SecState, SecDef, Treasury, Commerce, Attorney General.

There were a few nods around the table.

Then Energy rose.

Eight votes out of fifteen. Majority.

The Vice-President rose in turn and typed into his phone. After a few hushed moments punctuated by the snores of the President, he held up the phone toward them.

“I have texted the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives a written statement that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office. As much as it pains me to be at this junction of the current crisis, events have left us no choice. We must lead this country. I ask everyone around this table to come together as one force to fix this country. E pluribus unum.”

Nice speech. Sounded rehearsed.

Suddenly, her ears popped, as if there had been an abrupt pressure change.

🏛️

Dave noticed a change in the air pressure. Weird

🏛️

Harry gulped. The House’s ventilation systems weren’t supposed to create that change in pressure.

🏛️

Peggy yawned to clear her ears. Why had they popped?

Needled by Peggy’s jabs, the President finally roused.

“Huh. What?” he mumbled.

The room quietened immediately as all eyes focused on him. There was no more buzzing from cell phones, and everyone had stopped talking. 

Slowly waking up, Blunt looked at the entire room.

“Why so… why so… serious?”

“Mister Blunt,” said the Vice President, “We have just voted your removal from the office of President according to Section 4 of the Twenty-Fifth amendment. It would be best for you to leave and go back to your rooms.”

It was as if someone had jammed a cattle prod in the president’s chest. He rose abruptly, and Peggy saw that a large brown stain had spread in his pants. The seat of the trousers clung to him as he moved, then dropped heavily as it unstuck.

“This is outrageous! Unfair! Terrible! Nobody has—when you think of the fake things. Nobody’s been treated like Blunt in terms of badly,” he said while moving toward the east wall.

He staggered on his feet and approached the JFK portrait hung on the wall of the room. Peggy blinked. Had that portrait always been there? Oh, sure, they had it moved six months ago. That portrait was too depressing for the visitors. Didn’t they move it?

“If you can believe it, Abraham Lincoln was treated supposedly very badly, but nobody’s been treated badly like me.”

Struggling to keep his equilibrium, he rested a hand on the wall next to the portrait.

“Gary!” he shouted, addressing his bodyguard. “Who led this treason?”

“It was Gord at Labour!” squealed SecDef.

“Gary! You know what we do to traitors! Shoot him down now!”

Gary looked left and right, clearly out of his depth.

“Shoot him and I’ll pardon you. Don’t shoot him and I’ll have you executed for treason.”

Gary drew his pistol, then held steady as the rest of the room shouted at him to stand down.

“I’m surrounded by dogs and snakes,” said Blunt. “All against me. There has been no President in the history of our country who has been treated so badly as I have. No one, no President!”

Behind him, the portrait of JFK moved—the former president uncrossed his arms, drew a large knife from his suit’s inner right pocket and pushed forward out of the painting.

Unaware of what was happening behind him, Blunt kept ranting.

“Gary, for the last time, draw your gun and shoot—URK!”

JFK reached out of the painting and drew the knife across Blunt’s throat in one sure stroke.

As everyone in the room screamed, Blunt gurgled and reached for his throat, which was spraying blood in front of him. Peggy was drenched, along with SecDef and the five people closest to the president. A remarkable spray of blood continued to pump out of Blunt’s slit throat even as he tried to bring his hands up.

This is not survivable, thought Peggy. Not even the best surgeons could do anything for him now.

Blunt dropped hard to the carpeted floor as the lowered blood pressure made him unconscious. Blood continued to pour out of him in an ever-expanding pool, soon growing larger than his head.

Gary was the first to react: He brought up his gun and unloaded an entire clip on JFK’s portrait.

To absolutely no effect, saw Peggy—the bullets flattened against the painting and fell to the floor with a clink inaudible due to the screaming in the room.

JFK himself had retreated into the portrait, still once more. Except that his posture had changed: the painting’s brushstrokes were now showing him with a large satisfied smile, arms crossed in victory and staring directly ahead. 

 

Chapter 8 — The House Rises

“WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK WAS THAT?” shouted one of the so-called pros in the pantry.

Not that Harry could have answered him. He had been in the pantry for the past few minutes, even as the shouting had unfolded. His glimpses through the door’s round windows had been obscured by everyone else standing in front of them. Do not enter that room under any circumstances had been his overriding directive—and by the time the screaming had begun, his determination to go see what was happening in that dining room was defeated by Delilah and her five assistants all rushing back into the pantry.

“What just happened?” asked Harry.

“You’re not going to believe this and I can’t blame you,” said Sonia in a daze.

“Christ, I’m not sure what happened,” said Gabrielle.

“Dave, give me the facts.”

“The Cabinet just made the Vice-President President—.”

That, Harry had heard.

“—and then JFK’s portrait slit open Blunt’s throat.”

“Come on, Dave.”

“That’s what happened,” said Delilah.

Samatha added more details—the snoring, the pant-shitting, the twenty-fifth amendment, the way the portrait of JFK reached out of the painting—which everyone swore wasn’t there at the beginning of the diner—with a knife, and the spray of blood that drenched everyone within two yards.

“Just go see for yourself,” challenged Delilah. “You’re the last rationalist left in the building.”

Harry sighed, walked to the door and snuck a look. 

Through the panicked crowd, he saw enough to convince himself of what was happening—Blunt on the floor, cradled by his sobbing chief of staff. Blood everywhere around them. JFK’s portrait, as he had never seen it before. Everyone shouting and arguing—some weeping, others showing more insidious signs of trauma. Some frantically manipulating their cell phones.

He closed the door.

🏛️

Dave sat in the pantry, back set against the cool steel of the refrigerator, oblivious to what others were doing or saying.

Like the others, he had seen it happen. He was more or less indifferent to the political shouting, but there was no mistaking what had happened out there: a painting had come to life and killed Blunt. This was not normal. This was not explainable by anything from science or reason. The debunker was out of answers except for one: Reality was overrated.

And if that was possible, what else was possible? For that matter, what else was happening here?

Gradually, a smile came to his face. Would he find here the answers that had eluded him for so long?

Am I going to see you soon, Mike?

🏛️

Someone shook Peggy.

“Peggy? Peggy? We need to move him.”

She blinked. She was still cradling Blunt’s head in her arms, her tears running down her cheeks.

Some would say that she was crying because Blunt being gone, she was reduced to nothing in the White House, but that wasn’t true. She was crying for Blunt himself—the man who’s taken a chance on her when no one else would, the man who’s given a voice to everyone who’d seen that the system was broken, the former tycoon reduced to an exploitable puppet disdained by his own entourage—kept upright as a speech-and-signature prop when he should have been resting.

“No,” she said softly.

“You need to go clean yourself,” said the Secretary of State with surprising empathy.

Maybe. Yes. 

“They need to document the scene,” he added—as they both pretended that they didn’t hear the constant click of phone cameras around them.

“All right.”

Regretfully, she left Blunt’s body slump back to the floor. At least he was face-up now.

There was blood everywhere—much of it on her or on the carpet, but the spray had reached wide and many suits, shirts and blouses would need to be cleaned. Or burned.

She got up, and her Chief of Staff’s mindset came back to her.

“Where are the paramedics?”

“No cell service,” said SecState.

What? She checked hers—nothing.

“No one has service. Everything stopped when our ears popped.”

“This is not a coincidence. This could be an attack.”

He nodded to the side, where Kean was already surrounded by the three Secret Service agents.

“They’re about to run down to the bunker.”

“In that case, the entire cabinet should go down.”

“Not everyone agrees. And not everyone agrees about who’s part of the cabinet, I think.”

Peggy had already noticed that the room was already sorting itself out—on one side the Blunt loyalists, on the other the vipers who had voted to strip the President of his authority. Except that the Vice-President wasn’t part of either faction, standing to the side as he did. And the billionaire civilians weren’t sure which direction the wind would blow.

“All right, we’re moving Chesterfield to a secure location,” finally said one of the Secret Service agents, using Kean’s codename. “Move!”

Almost manhandling Kean, they pushed toward the door leading to the Entrance Hall. Peggy knew that the easiest exit to the official PEOC bunker was through the ground floor, near the Library Room, but were they going to use the PEOC or the other one?

She wouldn’t find out immediately—as a Secret Agent touched the sliding door to open it, there was an audible crackle and a visible electrical arc. The agent, obviously hurt, grunted as he pulled his hand back—and Kean crashed into him.

“The door is electrified!” needlessly added one of the agents.

The third agent, Gary, pulled his firearms and unloaded another clip into the door, where the bullets collided with the unyielding surface and fell to the ground.

“Ow! Fuck!” said Kean, bringing his hand to his ear. Gary had fired without caring about his surroundings, and now everyone near that door—including Peggy—had ringing in their ears.

“Are we stuck here?” shouted SecDef.

“Don’t touch the doors!” said someone from the back.

Then a bright light shone through the windows of the room.

🏛️

“What’s that?” said Sonia, blinking.

The small Butler’s Pantry had two windows in the north-west corner, and behind the drapes, a bright light was shining.

Harry pulled the drapes on the west side.

It was day. A bright summer day, with blue skies and green trees.

Their small group gathered in the corner to look outside. Dave pulled the drapes on the north side, and none of the protesters surrounding the White House were there—it was a normal day on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Harry brought up his phone for the clock, which still showed them to be well into the evening.

“This doesn’t make sense.”

Then the sun started to move. Perceptibly, then visibly, it moved to the west. The shadows of the building around them reacted accordingly. Then the sun set and they were once more at night.

“What—,“started Sonia.

Then it was day again, and the sun moved across the sky. From the west window, they caught a fleeting glimpse of the sun before it set.

Then another short night, and an even shorter day.

Before long, days and nights were succeeding each other at a fast rate, the shadows constantly moving as days lasted five, four, three, then two seconds and kept getting shorter.

The rhythms accelerated even further, and soon there were looking at Washington, DC as if through a sped-up film, days and nights blurring into each other in a perpetual twilight as the seasons succeeded themselves. Around them, the buildings started to decay—cracks in the facades, then buildings falling down. 

The entire town gradually fell into disrepair, then dust. Plants conquered the urban ruins and broke down the concrete even faster. A brief winter lasted ten seconds, then left the city to the plants who conquered it even more decisively. 

After a minute of this, the sun stopped in mid-day. It was noticeably redder, and the city had been levelled around them. Despite a return to real time, no human presence was visible. A few large animals walked down the rubble-filled streets.

“What is this?” whispered Gabrielle.

🏛️

“Are we now a hundred years in the future?” asked someone behind Miranda, voicing exactly her question.

Having been closer to the window when the light show started, Miranda had been one of the first to see the sights outside, even as everyone pressed closer.

Coupled with the lack of cell coverage, the spectacle outside was unnerving.

In front of them, the White House south lawn and Ellipse Park were now wilderness. The Washington monument had crumbled at some point, and deer were running through the area. Farther away, the Arlington skyscrapers were halfway crumbling, their many broken windows no longer reflecting sunlight.

Then the sun started moving. Backwards, west to east. Another night. Then the rhythm accelerated—night and day succeeding themselves incredibly fast as the buildings around them slowly regained their former pristine state. Tower rose up, cracks receded, and plants retreated to the parks. As the sun slowed down over the past few days, they found themselves back to where they were, then again at night.

“What was that?”

But the show wasn’t over yet — The sun rose again, then stopped high in the sky. Everything stood still.

A few people behind Miranda audibly wondered what was happening.

Then there was a blinding flash of light. Miranda closed her eyes and waited for the brightness to subside. When it cleared, she blinked and saw that Washington was no more—nuclear mushrooms rising above the buildings that had been levelled away from the White House. Only broken concrete and rebar remained from the ashes. Farther away, another flash over Arlington suggested that the Pentagon had been levelled. More flashes and more mushrooms followed—Washington being a high-priority target fit for nuclear carpet-bombing.

Behind Miranda, someone threw up. 

She herself wasn’t feeling too well—and a look south-east showed that her office was no longer standing.

Another night-day cycle showed everyone the devastation of a post-apocalyptic Washington: Building reduced to rubble, vegetation wiped out so that what remained was a brown wasteland as far as the eye could see. No blue sky—the fallout having created a long-lasting dust cloud that hung over the horizon.

What was the meaning of this? Why were they shown this? When were they?

Then the scene reverted again, going back to pre-nuclear devastation and then to the night scene they would expect from the time on their phones.

After thirty seconds, people drifted away from the windows, shaken. The room was once again polarizing between the Blunt lapdogs near the door to the Entrance Hall, the Twenty-fifth patriots (Miranda resisted the word “insurrectionists”) closer to the south-west corner and, somewhere in the middle, the minor cabinet officials and billionaires who hadn’t yet made up their mind.

There was another crackling of electricity as a Secret Service agent tried to open one of the doors to the Red Room.

Apparently, they weren’t going anywhere.

🏛️

“What was that?” asked Gabi.

“A vision of two futures,” suggested Sonia. “One of ruin, the other of nuclear annihilation. Is it a warning, though, or a prophecy?”

“Hmmm,” said Harry, echoing what Dave was thinking.

Or maybe Dave had hmmmed too, because Gabi turned toward him.

“What?”

Dave hesitated, then decided to fess up—he should have told Gabi anyway.

“I had a bad dream this morning, just before waking up. We were coming to the White House and…”

The details were fading in his memory. He struggled to recall details, but the impression it left was still strong.

“…and then I saw a mushroom cloud over the White House. Then charred people coming to us and saying, ‘You’re still alive, do something’ or something like that.”

“Holy shit!” said Harry. “Are you sure of that?”

🏛️

“It was a dream,” shrugged Dave.

Now everyone was looking at Harry.

“Harry, you got something to add?” asked Delilah.

Harry sighed. He had no choice but to say it, but he knew they would never look at him the same way.

“A few days ago, I was in the furnace room for maintenance and I had… a vision. A charred man coming out of the furnace, grabbing me by the jaw…”

He could still feel the carbonized hand on his beard.

“…and telling me, ‘You’re still alive, do something.’”

“Wow,” said Dave.

“Exactly.”

“Then there was what we heard downstairs,” said Sonia.

“What was that?” frowned Delilah.

“Earlier today,” said Sonia, “we were in the basement and we heard thuds, followed by a child’s voice telling us that we should get out.”

“But instead, we visited the Oval Office and, well, you called.”

“This is all bad juju,” sighed Delilah.

“Don’t we know it.”

A hush settled upon the pantry.

“I think the house is fucking with us,” said Sonia after a moment.

“The house?”

“Hey, I’m a well-regarded academic, all right? In history, no less. I can spot symbolic patterns better than anyone else. Put aside your rational mind for a moment, and start wearing your logical hat for a moment. The one you’re using when you’re watching horror movies. Right now, things aren’t rational, but they’re logical. We’ve got portents of doom, we’re cut off from the world and we just had a piece of décor slash a president’s throat. This isn’t rational, but it’s logical.”

“Logical of what?”

“We all hate Blunt, right?”

“Hated, I suppose,” said Gabrielle.

“We’re not the only one, right? And one of the reasons why people didn’t just dislike him but outright hated him is that he exposed America to be as craven, venal and brutish as we suspected. Most presidents were aspirational, and then we had one who’s representational. Now this place…”

She swept her hands around, as if to encompass the building.

“…is a warehouse of symbols piled upon each other. The best of America brought together. The most remarkable achievements of what the most remarkable among us could do. Now, again, thinking logically rather than rationally, what could hate Blunt more than the symbols of the nation? The symbols he worked so hard to corrupt and pervert? The house that he amputated by a third?”

She nodded.

“Oh yeah, this house hates Blunt. The question is now—is it done now that Blunt is dead? Does it hate anyone else?”

🏛️

There was something darkly amusing, supposed Miranda, in seeing four dozen of the country’s most powerful people cope with a situation in which they weren’t in control.

The Secret Service agents were still testing the doors leading to the Entrance Hall, the Red Room and the Family Dining Room. Every single time, they triggered an electrical shock and a crackling noise. They were not getting out of here. Whispers of terrorists, of kidnappers—except that no one had a convincing explanation of how someone could rig The White House for such shenanigans. 

The President’s lapdogs were showing the worst signs of distress: They shouted at each other, kept checking their phones, slapped the tables and the chairs in frustration, paced from one forbidden door to the other like caged lions. Most were egging Gary to shoot something, even though the results of Gary’s gunplay so far had been dismal—and she supposed he was probably running low on bullets.

Her group of patriots, at the opposite end of the room, were not doing as badly. While the phone-checking remained constant, they were coping with the situation. But then again, they were all used to being out of control: they hadn’t been Blunt’s closest contacts consulted before his insane decisions, they’d been put in non-prestige positions where their power was limited and they had all had the experience of being humiliated by the President in those bizarre public cabinet meetings where they were all required to swear fealty to him.

For them, seeing his cooling, exsanguinated body on the floor wasn’t such a tragedy.

And then there was the third group, still sitting at their places. Billionaires who were now regretting their invitation. Minor officials who were part of Cabinet more out of courtesy than real power—they weren’t counted in the permanent 15 member positions and hadn’t been invited to vote on the twenty-fifth. Some of them were not having a good time: they stared into space, clearly trying to cope with what they’d seen.

Not that Miranda herself was still at ease with those images.

The third group’s numbers were steadily dwindling, though—one by one, they moseyed to one of the corners and made overtures. Not all of them were welcome—in their corner, they’d ignored the Director of National Intelligence when he’d tried talking to them, remembering past incidents in which he’d been an asshole to them all, especially after switching allegiances from the other party to theirs.

The only mystery to Miranda was why no one had tried the pantry door yet—perhaps because they made such an effort to ignore the waitstaff that it took conscious effort to remember their existence. Perhaps because no one had even gone into the pantry and couldn’t imagine that such a servant’s space could lead to somewhere else. Perhaps because no one was thinking straight yet.

For a moment, she clung to that secret knowledge. For now, she wasn’t done seeing what would happen next here. Maybe once the desperation would set in, she would open the door and be hailed as a hero. Maybe she’d be the smartest in the room.

Unfortunately, that small hope died when she saw the chief of staff, still spectacularly drenched in presidential blood from hair to shoes, point to the pantry door with the exasperated air of someone finally asking, “Well, haven’t you tried this?”

Gary led a small expedition to the pantry door. Would they get a shocking reminder that there was no way out?

🏛️

“Freeze!” shouted a man with a gun as he entered the pantry from the State Dining Room.

“Gary, put the gun down,” said Delilah, as if she got weapons pointed at her all day long. Maybe kitchen knives counted.

As Dave and the rest of Delilah’s crew realized they’d been at hair-trigger distance of being shot, the secret service agent pointed the gun at the floor but kept his grip on the weapon.

“Who are you?” he asked, clearly over-adrenalized.

“This is my serving crew, Gary. They bring food to the guests. Put your gun away.”

But Gary was already looking at something else—the door leading to the Family Dining Room. He reached for the handle, hesitated a moment, then took the knob.

His hand jerked back as they heard a crackling noise and saw a blue-white arc of electricity reach from the knob.

“God DAMNIT,” said Gary as he shook his hand.

“Wanna try the staircase door?” said another agent.

“No, I don’t want to try the staircase door!” said a grimacing Gary. “You try it!”

The other agent tried the door with predictable results—the crack, the flash, the jerking back of the hand.

“How about the elevator?” asked a third agent.

“YOU TRY IT!” said Gary and the second agent.

He pushed the button, and nothing happened. No crackle, no flash—but no moving elevator and no opening doors either. The elevator was completely inert.

“So much for an exit through here.”

“On the other hand, we need someone to finish picking up the plates and serve dessert,” said a woman from behind the agents. Dave couldn’t see her very well, but she was in blood-red shirt and pants.

“Yes ma’am,” said Delilah. “Cleanup now, desserts in five minutes.”

“Make it ten.”

🏛️

Good thing done, thought Peggy as she went back into the State Dining Room. The waitstaff would start cleaning up this place, and the cabinet would get some sugar to eat—there wouldn’t be many leftovers left.

It felt good to start ordering people around again. Having the help snap to attention had been great, but what was better was seeing the face on that black bitch when she’d pushed back on when desserts would be served. No reason, except to tell her what to do.

“Everyone,” she said loudly, “please get back to your seats. Now.”

It looked as if people were thirsting for orders, because they didn’t argue—everyone went back to their places, either from the loyalists or the traitors’ corner.

Maybe that slime Kean would be something more than an amorphous blob this time around and start pulling people together. She didn’t like him and would never forgive him for the twenty-fifth, but he was the designated leader and they needed a top dog at the moment. The backstabbing could wait.

🏛️

Dave was back to pushing a cart in the State Dining room. He felt calmer—considering that there was a dead president lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, the threshold at which he could make a fool of himself and be noticed by the guests was now much, much higher. Probably unreachable, in fact.

Delilah had insisted on serving the dead president’s side of the table, which meant that Dave had to push the cart wheels through the thickening, browning pool of blood on the floor. He managed not to step in it, but the place was getting messy. No one had moved the body: perhaps for an eventual investigation (which would be a laugh), perhaps out of respect, perhaps because there was no good place to put the body. The walk-in climate-controlled refrigerators in the basement were all behind a few electric shocks.  Until that could happen, the pantry only had a small refrigerator where it would be undignified to stuff a dead president, let alone such a heavy one.

Delilah’s crew had more to do this time around—she had insisted on getting rid of everything that wasn’t required for dessert, so they were taking away utensils and minor plates in addition to the remaining entrée plates. Despite their attempts to be quiet about it, the clinking still felt incredibly loud.

The chair at the head of the table was still empty. Next to it, Kean rose and clinked a spoon into his glass.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I know that these are not ordinary circumstances. But we must pull together. We are all Americans in this room…”

From the corner of his eye, Dave thought he saw the frumpy blood-soaked lady react with a start.

“…and we must agree on a way forward. We will get out of here soon, and they will ask us about our approach to resolve this crisis. I don’t believe that there are that many differences between us.”

He took a sip of his glass.

“Accordingly, I believe it’s most prudent to pursue the policies launched by this administration. We will be less bombastic about them, obviously. There are ways for us to be smarter about our goals and to achieve them more thoroughly with stable, consistent leadership.”

He smiled.

“Simply measure the progress made in the first half of this administration. We have controlled the media and the political opposition. We have deployed our military in our cities to calm dissent to such an extent that it’s no longer news. The Supreme Court has largely supported our agenda. We have driven immigrant criminals away from our country and pardoned the allies who brought us to power. All of this sets the stage for further success.”

Another sip of his glass. Dave’s crew was nearly done cleaning their side of the table.

“But crises require swift action. I agree with our friend Thursk—private industry must take the lead in resolving this crisis. Accordingly, we will cut corporate tax rates, disband unions, and use emergency powers to designate the entire United States as a special economic zone with fewer regulations. Opponents will be stopped. We will no longer tolerate dissent that distracts us from our goals, and that goal is wealth and prosperity.”

As Delilah’s crew returned to the pantry, he paused for applause.

And got it.

🏛️

Well, isn’t this interesting…

The events of the day had been unfolding at an unrelenting pace, so Peggy wasn’t beating herself up for misplacing a detail or two.

But Kean’s well-intentioned crack about the room being exclusively populated by Americans sparked recognition in her. The three video influencers who were slated to visit the White House earlier today… there they were, picking up plates and pushing carts.

Showing valuable skills, for once.

She had not recognized them until now. She’d been busy with the event preparation, stickhandling the President, grieving over his loss and trying to get it back together at a time when she should be preparing her succession plan. Then there was the context: She hadn’t expected them to show up as part of the waitstaff, with formal suits and caps. Not sure how that had happened.

Yet there they were—the Canadian girl, the dual-citizenship guy and the kakistocracy egghead. Three people who should be shot out of the White House with a cannon. Three security risks. Three loose ends.

But also, as Hiller suggested—three opportunities if they needed it.

🏛️

“Blunt’s death changed nothing,” said a disbelieving Gabrielle in the pantry.

Harry had kept the door ajar and had listened to the speech. He didn’t have to ask what had happened.

Same shit, different day, he shrugged.

“They’re going to be more focused,” said Sonia. “Less easily distracted. Quieter about the bad parts. What did we expect? Half a dozen people in there are trillionaires.”

“Kean’s got the charisma of a noodle, though.”

Sonia let out a short chuckle.

“Won’t matter, I’m afraid. They control everything from Congress to the media. They don’t need Blunt’s weird appeal anymore. And since Kean took over after Blunt’s first half-term, he can still run for two more elections.”

A defeated silence fell upon the pantry.

“All right, crew,” said Delilah, “we still have a job to do. Let’s put those feelings in a box and serve’em sugar.”

She raised a finger in warning.

“No spitting.”

Chapter 9 — The Souls of America

Miranda had to admit that Kean wasn’t doing a bad job at knitting the group back together.

Of course, having a dead president lying on the floor did help; there was no ambiguity about the line of succession now.

“These doors will open sooner or later,” said the man most were now seeing as President. “Until they do, we’ve been handed a gift: that of affirming that we are one team. When we will get out of this room, we will do so as a single cabinet focused on resolving the issues of the nation. No more late-night policy by social media posting. No more distractions from our goals.”

There was a steady clinking as the waitstaff served the dessert plates.

“My predecessor achieved something remarkable—he remade the nation to conservative ideals, he shifted the discourse in our favour and he cowed the opposition. We will celebrate those achievements and we will honour the man who made them possible. You will see the biggest state funeral this country has ever seen, and you will see continuity between our policies.”

Having pacified the loyalists, Kean was now ready to deliver his message, and Miranda was waiting for it.

“This being said, we can now do things that we couldn’t before. We can be free of the distractions. We can adjust our policies for better impact. We can learn from experience and strike even harder. Our enemies have not changed—the other party is dangerous, and it will be further marginalized. The situation outside our doors cannot be treated lightly. Muscular, intimidating intervention is the only language that will be respected.”

How long have you rehearsed this speech, Kean? Over the past fifteen minutes, or a much longer time?

At least they all had dessert now that the waitstaff was nearly done.

“Some civil liberties may be suspended out of necessity. Elections can be dangerous distractions, what with propaganda and the diversion from the burden of governance. This process may take years. Let’s not be afraid of using the power at our disposal. Many of our countrymen are weak—they seek guidance, they crave order. We will provide that order. Furthermore—”

He was interrupted by loud gongs and trumpets. Very loud trumpets, drilling into everyone’s ears as if they heralded an arrival. Everyone, including the waitstaff at the back of the room, interrupted what they were doing and brought their hands over their ears. The sound was so loud that—wait, was she really seeing what she thought she was seeing?

Was the mirror visibly warping from the sound?

The State Dining Room had a gigantic mirror on its northern wall—behind what had been Blunt’s position at the head of the table, above a dark marble table. Now Miranda could see the mirror flow like liquid in beat with the trumpet sounds.

Then a figure emerged from the mirror.

🏛️

Dave had seen some stuff today, but this was something else.

A woman’s hand emerged from the mirror, as if it was reaching out of a shiny pool. The hand was followed by an arm, then a bare foot from underneath a white robe, stepping onto the dark marble table.

A face emerged next—a thirtysomething brunette with long loosely curled hair. She was wearing an ample white robe, draped with an American flag over her shoulders. 

She stepped on the marble tabletop and the mirror behind her solidified again. She looked around the room as if she had no equals here, utterly unimpressed by the power of its occupants.

“My children, how far you have fallen.”

Dave looked over to the other cart, where Sonia was staring at the newcomer as if struck by divinity. “Lady Columbia,” he heard her say faintly.

“You have betrayed this republic. You have forgotten our obligations to each other.”

Her voice was melodious but direct. She looked over contemptuously at the dead president on the floor.

“That is a step in the right direction. But it’s not enough.”

One of the Secret Service agents interpreted this as a direct threat and fired at Lady Columbia.

The bullet clearly struck her squarely in the chest, but didn’t seem to affect her. She turned to the agent.

“Hush, now.”

She swept her hand and the agent’s gun went flying off against the wall. Then she pushed toward the agent and he went tumbling backward, falling hard against the floor, rolling and hitting the wall disgracefully.

Her stare returned to the people sitting around the table. There was fire in it, thought Dave. Hatred.

She spat, and bullets went ringing into Blunt’s wine glass, down on the table.

“Retribution is coming,” she said.

She stepped forward, but did not fall—she glided gracefully down to the floor, as if she was walking down a gentle invisible incline. Then she started circling the table.

Sonia pushed her cart against the wall to make way for her, and Dave did the same.

“I am here for the weak, the oppressed, the powerless, the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” she said, clearly relishing her words.

“My children came here to escape oppression, and you have oppressed them in turn. You have mistaken your greed for public service. But you all knew what you were doing.”

She passed by Dave and the waitstaff. Up-close, the only thing Dave could think was that she was beautiful.

No, she was magnificent—inhuman and yet more than human. Divinity in the flesh. Dave was not religious, but he would have kneeled at her bare feet had he not been paralyzed in the presence of her greatness.

“There are only a few innocents in this room,” said Lady Columbia while holding Sonia’s gaze.

“And none of them are sitting at the table!” she spat while turning her attention to the cabinet.

“I am the mother of exiles. I am the spirit of the nation. I carry the torch of enlightenment. And, whenever it is needed to defend my children, I regretfully wield the sword of justice.”

Circling the table, she reached inside her robe and pulled out a sword. People closest to her tried to pull back, without success.

“Sacrifices must be made. A culling is required. A better nation awaits.”

She pulled her sword behind her head, and it looked to Dave as if she was about to strike her first victim—a tech trillionaire with household name recognition.

“HEY, NOT SO FAST!” shouted a new voice.

There was a gunshot, and the sword in Lady Columbia’s hand rang out, struck by a bullet.

The room looked at the newcomer who finished emerging from the mirror, gun in hand.

It was an older white man, tall with light gray hair and a long thin goatee. But it was his clothing that best defined him—a tall blue-and-red top hat, a blue tailcoat, red-striped pants and a white shirt capped with a red tie. As if to highlight his identity, he was pointing at Lady Columbia.

It was Uncle Sam in the flesh.

“I want YOU to stop. You’re getting ahead of yourself, lady!” he said, then somersaulted down from the marble tabletop to the floor, landing with a flourish. 

He didn’t head for Lady Columbia directly—he circled to the other side of the table.

“Or maybe you’re forgetting your place, woman!” he said, pointing. “You’re out of time and out of steam!”

With a grin, he gestured at the people sitting at the table with an expansive gesture.

“This is America as it is now! The land of greed and home of the depraved! Or is it the home of the slaves? Why can’t it be both—we’re American, some of us can have it all!”

Many people around the table were nodding, noted Dave.

“Let’s face it—no one knows who you are except as the figurehead to some studio’s shitty movies! Everyone who thinks about Columbia thinks it’s about the South American country! How does it feel to be in the dustbin of history?”

Uncle Sam didn’t walk in the room—he took possession of it with a wide stance and a debonair walk. Utterly at ease, he was loose whereas Columbia was uptight.

“So, spare us your self-righteous moral lessons, bitch! Your time has come and gone—you were a peasant’s icon when the country was all about farming, and your ideals are now about as relevant as a horse-and-buggy show. The business of America is business, and it doesn’t matter how we get there!”

“Hear, hear!” said a few people while banging the table.

“This is not a country for the weak, and it’s not a country for the poor—this is a country where you take what you deserve and deserve what you take! So fuck your feelings, fuck your compassion, and fuck your obsolete beliefs. You’re fired!”

Uncle Sam brought his gun up—a massive large-calibre revolver—, thumbed back the hammer and fired at Lady Columbia.

The left side of her face exploded, sending bloody fragments everywhere.

Much of it hit Dave in the face with a wet sensation—blood, brain matter, small shattered teeth and skull pieces. He blinked in time from the gunshot to avoid receiving any in his eyes, but still felt as if he’d been drenched in gore.

Looking to the left in disgust, he saw the outline he had left on the wall—the rest was painted red with gore. Looking to the right because of an irresistible curiosity, he peered through Lady Columbia’s skull to see the grey matter and the pulsing heartbeats at the edges of the gaping wound.

I’m not going to throw up, I’m not going to throw up, I’m not going to throw up…

Someone else did, though. Maybe more than one other person, from the sound of it.

But while Dave would have expected a spray of blood flowing from her injury, there was nothing of the sort: In fact, the blood seemed to be re-forming the brain, the vessels surrounding her skull, then the grey bones and finally the flesh.

While her skull was regenerating, she spoke.

“Are you done, you insolent child? An adult is speaking. I can play this game as well.”

She put the sword back into her robe and pulled out a handgun—a shiny silver-polished monster revolver.

Without pause, hesitation or difficulty, she pulled the hammer and fired in turn.

Now it was Uncle Sam’s turn to feel half of his head blown on the walls of the State Dining Room.

Not that he minded too much: He laughed.

Dave’s skin crawled, but it wasn’t so much because of the situation than from an actual sensation on his skin—he felt the gore from Lady Columbia moving downward—into his collar, down his clothes, through fabric. From the corner of his eye, he saw something similar on the gore-drenched walls—they were cleaning themselves up from the top down, with material racing to the floor.

He looked down as he felt his face clean itself free of blood and other body matter. What had been blown away was now a mass of material flowing over the carpet in the room, heading back to Lady Columbia to be reabsorbed into her body. 

Meanwhile, her face gradually rebuilt itself. He could see the orbit of her eye shaping itself as matter flowed back to her head. Then the eye.

He felt pieces of her moving down his chest and his legs. Some of it oozed out of his shoes, rushing to catch the rest of her flowing back to her body.

Something similar was going on with Uncle Sam at the other end of the room. He kept laughing.

“All right, I get it. But so do you, doll.”

He smirked, which was a terrifying expression from a partially destroyed skull.

“We can keep shootin’ at each other all night long, but we won’t make much more than a dent. Of course, if you start hackin’ into my protégés, here, things may get hairier. Are you up for it, harridan?”

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice. Your way leads to the destruction they witnessed, whether by fire, water or earth.”

Dave felt as if all traces of Lady Columbia had slid off of him. Indeed, the pieces of blood and gore flowing toward her had reached their destination and her head was more or less back to what it was. Some hair was still growing.

“Yeah, whatever, but do you have the time to defeat me? A hundred years later, you’re still struggling. Meanwhile, this little cozy nook isn’t going to remain locked up much longer. Our common friend yearns for a bigger playground.”

“But our common friend and I thirst for the same vengeance.”

“Eh, one against one, two against one, might as well be none against one—we’re Americans, we can face anything; am I right, people?”

The call-out fell flat—no reaction from the people around the table.

He kept going:  “Stasis takes energy, and I’m not sure that our flytrap friend has that much of it. So be it! Let this house be our playground for the night! Hunt and be hunted! Whoever makes it to dawn wins! You stick to your fair play, but I’ll be using every dirty trick I can scrounge up to protect my people.”

With his ever-erect pointing finger, he swept the room.

“All of y’all be careful, because in the end… the odds aren’t with this House.”

The doors of the State Dining room all snapped open with a simultaneous SLAM that startled everyone except Lady Columbia and Uncle Sam.

“Well, will you look at that? Right on schedule!”

He doffed his top hat.

“Toodle-do, everyone. But don’t worry—I’ll be seeing you all soon.”

Somersaulting backwards, he left the room through the doors to the Entrance Hall.

Lady Columbia looked at Delilah’s serving crew.

“I will protect the righteous and those who join you. But I cannot be everywhere. Be careful.”

She pressed against the wall and disappeared within it.

Which left only humans in the room.

Almost immediately, everyone around the table got up and raced toward the Entrance Hall.

Chapter 10 — A House Divided

After everything she’d witnessed, Miranda’s instincts were simple: RUN.

She rose as everyone did, and headed for the door as everyone did. 

It was undignified, but it was primal: RUN.

Only the first few near the door and those willing to step in Blunt’s pool of blood made it out of the State Dining Room without bashing into each other. The Director of National Intelligence slipped on Blunt’s blood and fell backwards on the floor, his suit permanently stained as he made a comical noise.

Miranda didn’t have a head-start, but that only made her compulsion stronger: RUN.

Sure, she smashed an elbow into the Secretary of Commerce and pushed back the older lady who ran Veterans’ Affairs. The point was getting out before they did. And everyone else around her was doing worse.

As soon as she arrived to the wider expanse of the foyer, she knew what to do: RUN.

Everyone was headed toward another choke point: The door leading outside to the North Portico. Men in expensive suits, women in no-less expensive blazers and pants, people with millions, billions, and trillions in assets, all fighting each other to be outside the door first, no matter what laid beyond.

Faced between hostile humans outside and vengeful gods inside, Miranda had her priorities straight: RUN.

Being in the middle of the pack gave her one advantage and one disadvantage.

She saw that the first to reach the door were not able to open it –a blue electric arc confirmed it—, and she slowed down.

But those behind her did not see that the way out was blocked, and smashed into her.

Pushed in the back, she fell against the person in front of her, and then to the floor. Still, the people behind her kept coming—she felt their shoes stepping on her legs, her back, and her arms. Please, no high heels, she thought, and then please, no more, as someone stepped on her chest and stomped the air out her lungs. I don’t want to die in a stampede, she desperately thought, as more and more of the privileged elite were only too happy to stomp over her to get closer to their goal. She tried raising her head to cry out, but a shoe on her head sent her face smashing against the floor, her teeth clanking against the marble tiles of the Entrance Hall. Pain rang from her perfect and expensive dentition, but she stopped caring because, at that point, a sharp flat heel crushed her right fingers.

She didn’t have enough air in her lungs to scream.

Help, help, I can’t breathe, she wanted to shout.

Instead, she groaned involuntarily as the last breath in her lungs was stomped out by another shoe.

Breathing was impossible—the weight on her back was too great; she couldn’t draw any air.

She felt the walls close in—the edges of her vision blurring, blood stuck in her head, teeth shattered, finger bones broken and ribs kicked in.

No! this is not how I want to die!, she thought.

🏛️

“Chesterfield to the PEOC!” shouted one of the Secret Service agents, dragging the Vice-President to the stairs leading to the ground floor.

As the pile-up grew near the North Portico entrance, Peggy quickly followed—the agents were used to rushing someone along, and tubby-boy Kean was half-jogging half-dragged along by the Secret Service detail. The small group left the Entrance Hall through its northeastern doorway, heading down the marble-floored staircase leading to the ground floor.

She knew where they were going, and unlike some other members of the cabinet, she had the clearance to be admitted in. None followed closely, as the commotion kept growing near the Portico doors.

She got a workout keeping up with the agents going downstairs, only a few paces behind them—trying not to trip at the speed they were going. At least she could grab the centre handrail if she needed to.

The handrail angled right at the bottom of the stairs, but she and the agents knew that the correct path was to left—once into the ground floor central corridor and its curved archways, and then left again at the second door, past the presidential library. The agents efficiently opened the door and kept going inside.

From previous drills, Peggy knew what to expect—a sharp circular staircase leading one level down, to the basement of the White House. The pace slowed down slightly—given the narrow curving stairs, the agents couldn’t very well push Kean without the portly man tumbling down. This gave Peggy a change to follow with her narrower heels.

She knew that there were roughly half a dozen ways to get to the basement floor: through elevators, stairs, tunnels and even a laundry chute if one was desperate. But from that point, there was only one way into their destination—through a door to a storage space, and then through another door to an elevator with its own power generator.

That door was only opened with keycards, and while Peggy was still blood-soaked, she still had her all-important ID. Reluctantly, the agents allowed her to follow.

Surprisingly, no one else had followed them—maybe they were still trying the handles of the North Portico door one by one, surprised at how they were being shocked one after the other.

In fact, she was slightly surprised they had been allowed—by whom? The House itself?—to get this far. Would the next door be electrified?

There was an elevator inside the heavy door. All rushed inside, and Peggy suspected that part of the reason she was tolerated with them was that there was still space left for two more people.

As the elevator dropped down at a speed unlike any other civilian elevator—every second counted when ICBMs were inbound—Peggy knew that the PEOC, the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, was the crudest of the two bunkers under the White House. 

Built during the Second World War and located well under the East Wing, it was for decades the only evacuation option for the President and essential staff. It had only been used a few times—notably during the initial confusion on 9/11 and later in 2020 when Blunt had turned chickenshit during the mild urban unrest around the White House—but a few details of its existence had been leaked publicly to reassure everyone that the government had facilities in case of national security threats.

The elevator doors opened and they saw the short corridor leading east to the bunker. They hurried—they were roughly five stories underground, but not inside the bunker’s protective doors yet. 

Peggy wasn’t too sure of the plan yet, and she suspected that the agents didn’t know either. The standard procedure was—grab the highest-ranking member of government and whisk them off to the PEOC. (At least if the threat wasn’t an ICBM—then there was another procedure.)  They’d reassess once behind steel doors.

They had one big surprise the closer they got to the bunker entrance. The external foot-thick steel door supposed to seal the PEOC was open. The agents gave up their hold on Kean’s suit and drew their weapons.

There was no one in the inside lobby between external and internal doors. The security station that was supposed to be staffed by military personnel was unmanned.

Worse yet—the inner door was also open.

One of the agents spoke into his walkie-talkie. “PEOC is not secure. Repeat, PEOC is not secure.”

Would the signals from the walkie-talkie reach through five stories of solid rock? Or was there some kind of alternate network she wasn’t aware of?

The agents hesitated, and Peggy understood why. Should they go investigate, or should they let the loose end dangle unsolved? Kean and Peggy exchanged a glance.

So did the agents. 

One of them, Gary, finally said to the other agent: “Stu, stay here with Chesterfield and Minden. Leave if I’m not back in five.”

The other agent nodded and went to close the outer door, turning the central lever to lock the door with its steel deadbolts.

Gary disappeared inside the PEOC and closed the door.

Now they were nominally protected in the antechamber of the PEOC. But what was “being protected” considering a threat that could walk through mirrors?

The security lobby was strictly functional—no distractions, nothing to do.

So, they waited.

🏛️

As soon as the cabinet and billionaires stampeded out, Harry opened the door and went in to check on Delilah and her crew.

“Are you okay —”

He never finished his question—Delilah hugged him.

Behind her, Gabrielle was doing the same to Dave. Sonia, on the other hand, had dropped to the floor, now sitting with her back against the wall. The two pros were looking at the room around them, trying to understand how a splash of blood and body fragments could clean itself off so easily. 

“Did you see this?” said Delilah.

“Everything. I kept the pantry door open a crack to hear and watched through the window.”

“How was that craziness?”

“Still can’t believe what I saw.”

“This is a hell of a haunted house.”

“It’s not the house,” said Sonia. “At least, I don’t think so.”

Everyone turned toward Sonia.

She wasn’t looking good. Her make-up had run, and her eyes were fixing a distant point. Her shawl was almost falling to the floor and Harry could see red marks on her arms when she had gripped herself during the events.

“This is going to sound crazy, so if you’re not going to listen, please leave.”

“We’re listening, Sonia,” softly said Gabrielle.

Everyone else agreed.

“This makes more sense if you think about symbols. Logic over rationality, remember? I think that the House itself is involved—the electrified doors and their references to ‘an old friend’ as a third party. But what we saw is something else. Unghhh.”

She grabbed her head, as if it was about to explode.

“We’re stuck in between symbols made real. This is tulpa-level stuff, the kind of thing discussed between academics as a joke and creepypasta posters as a dare. If reality is malleable, I think it’s downright porous here right now.”

“I’m sorry, Sam, I’m not following you,” said Delilah.

“You shouldn’t. Okay, let me try again. You recognized Uncle Sam, right?”

Everyone agreed.

“Of course, the guy with the beard.”

“And you did, because for a century Uncle Sam has been the personification of the United States itself. ‘I want YOU for U.S. Army,’ and that kind of stuff. Often associated with the military, so aggressive and warmongering, but also capitalistic to the extreme. More or less the image of the United States since the very early twentieth century.”

“Then who was the other figure?”

“Ha. The thing is, Uncle Sam wasn’t always the human personification of the United States. For more than the first hundred years of the country, we had a different one. Patterned on Great Britain’s Britannia and France’s Marianne, the first symbol of the United States was Columbia. Beautiful young woman, brunette, dressed in white and blue. She represented the heartland—protective of her children, often wearing a liberty cap on her head.”

“I don’t remember that,” said Dave.

“Of course you don’t, because Lady Columbia was completely eclipsed by Uncle Sam from the First World War onward. Still, there are traces of her everywhere if you know where to look. The District of Columbia. Columbia University. The name of the first Space Shuttle. The logo for that movie studio. Even the Statue of Liberty is a loose derivative.”

“So, she’s… back?”

“It’s more complicated than that. What we’re seeing are two very different visions of America made flesh. Given the events of today, I think they’re being manifested into reality. Not many know Lady Columbia, but her spirit lives on—everyone who wants the country to take care of her citizens, to nurture them like a mother. It’s roughly the left-wing vision for the country: caring, benevolent, and humane.”

“And then there’s Uncle Sam.”

“Cash for guns, guns for cash,” said Gabrielle.

“I’m not sure why we’re surprised. We’ve got nearly a full-scale national panic outside these walls. As outside, so inside. The walls of reality are so thin in this house tonight that even the symbols are clashing.”

“I like Lady Columbia better,” said one of the pros.

“So do most people, but not the ones sitting at the table,” said Sonia.

There was enough shouting coming from the Entrance Hall that it was clear no one was getting out of the house.

“Any idea what to do next?”

“We’ve got Uncle Sam protecting his troops, Lady Columbia apparently on our side, and the White House itself doing who knows what.”

“Does the House hate us?”

“I don’t know. If I was a house, I’d probably hate all humans.”

“We’re not like them, though.”

“Hopefully, we’ll go unnoticed. I hope we’re similarly invisible to the humans as well.”

“Are they still split into two camps?”

“They were, but now that Kean took command, they’re probably all falling in line.”

Sonia got up.

“Maybe the House just wants to hold on to the politicians and the trillionaires. We should see if we can leave this building. Let’s change back into our clothes first.”

🏛️

Miranda gradually came back to consciousness.

Ugh, this can’t be good, she thought as she opened her eyes and found herself alone in the Entrance Hall, left for dead by everyone.

Then: Holy fuck, everything hurts!

Groaning, she took inventory—her chest hurt, her legs hurt, her teeth hurt, her hand—oh, shit her right hand!

She moved her fingers and nearly passed out again. Broken bones. Blue, puffy and incredibly painful. There was a big diamond-shaped bruise on her right hand.

The left hand was better—no broken bones—but not by much: It had probably been stepped on by a man with flat shoes rather than a woman with short heels. Still swollen, but functional.

Nearly crying from the pain and breathing hard, she brought her right hand close to her chest and got up.

She could hear a commotion coming from other areas of the house—people shouting in what sounded like anger and frustration.

No, I’m not even going to try touching that doorknob, she thought.

Gaaah, she felt. She wanted to grit her teeth against the pain, but the teeth were in pain themselves. She ran her tongue around her mouth and was grateful that all of her teeth were there, whole and in their sockets. Probably just hit them gently against the floor, no damage done–it just felt worse than it was.

What next? She needed medical attention—some kind of cast for her hand, painkillers for the rest. She tried remembering the White House floor plan. Wasn’t there a medical office downstairs?

🏛️

Gary was back to the security station within two minutes.

“There’s no one here. PEOC is empty.”

Peggy wasn’t the only one to frown at that. They all knew that the bunkers under the White House were always manned—military personnel were assigned to posts in shifts to ensure complete coverage, day and night, in case a sudden emergency arose.

“Signs of violence?”

“Nothing,” said Gary. “It’s all empty.”

He pointed inside and everyone went in to have a look, probably in breach of some Secret Service protocol.

The PEOC was tiny—it wasn’t much more than a bare-bones situation room with a few living quarters attached to it. It had been built at great expense during World War II, but ultimately made obsolete by technological progress. Peggy knew that it was too shallow—modern nuclear weapons could reach and destroy it, so the newer bunker had been built much deeper.

As they retraced Gary’s steps through the PEOC, they too saw for themselves the eerie emptiness of the place. The place was perfectly in order. No sign of violence, no abandoned clothes that could be seen as a sign of the rapture. 

Gary led them to the internal security station.

“I want to check something.”

He logged onto the video camera system and looked at the footage from earlier in the day. 

“Huh. Look at that.”

At six-thirty, the entire staff of the PEOC had left the bunker, leaving the door open. It wasn’t a rush, it wasn’t a line: over ten minutes, everyone—including the military officers commanding the post—has simply decided to leave. The HD footage caught their unease, maybe even their fear: they kept glancing around as if they expected something to happen.

Six thirty, thought Peggy. While the Cabinet dinner was going on. Halfway between the first and second courses. Early enough for everyone to leave before when Peggy’s ears had popped, which is when she now presumed the house had locked itself up.

Then she remembered the empty offices throughout the West Wing, the division heads notifying them of unusual absenteeism. She hadn’t minded at the time, as fewer people around would make the dinner easier to manage. She had even rationalized it as people being worried about outside events but now she wondered—had people somehow been pushed out?

“We have to move,” said Gary. “This place is compromised.”

That seemed ridiculous, but she understood. 

“I can’t reach the DUCC,” said the other agent after fiddling with his communication device.

The other main bunker under the White House had been built much later, more than three times as deep underground. While the PEOC was half-acknowledged publicly, The Deep Underground Command Center (DUCC) was never mentioned to the press—its existence sketchily deducted from immense capital expenditures on White House renovations, the logic of nuclear weapon protection, and a few unfortunate happenings such as a sinkhole north of the West Wing in 2018.

“Let’s try the Treasury Tunnel first.”

Peggy almost groaned, anticipating what was about to happen—a three-story climb to the former East Wing’s subbasement in order to reach the entrance of the tunnel leading to the Treasury Building, and probably in vain. 

She didn’t believe that there was any way out of the White House.

Chapter 11 — Cabinet Shakeup

As much as Dave looked pretty good in that waitstaff uniform, he was glad to be in his street clothes, with his recording equipment at hand. This apparently went double for Gabi, who was once again wielding her camera, but not necessarily shooting anything yet.

“Sucks that we missed out on recording all that,” she said.

“Yeah, but imagine trying to do good framing while serving plates.”

She laughed and kissed him on the cheek.

“Who’s going to believe us, though?”

“I’m not sure I believe myself right now,” commented Sonia.

They were on the ground floor, in the main White House kitchen. The spiral staircase leading from the pantry to the kitchen downstairs had been thankfully free of electricity, so they had quickly retrieved their things and changed in the nearby offices.

“That’s all right. We’ve all had a hard day,” said Delilah. 

“But now we should look for a way out,” said Harry.

“I don’t think the House will let us,” said Dave.

“Maybe us,” said Sonia. “We’re not significant, so maybe we’ll be able to get out.”

“We should check the exit in the West Wing,” he said.

“How about the South Lawn?” suggested one of the pros.

“You go check that. I’m still going to the West Wing—I want to see if there’s anyone else there. Whoever doesn’t get out comes back here.”

Dave looked at Gabi. Whom should we follow? He shrugged.

She nodded toward Harry. It would be rude not to follow their host.

Dave nodded. They’d have to hurry to catch up, since he was already off.

They exited the kitchen into the corridor, where they saw an older woman walk toward them.

Dave frowned. He had seen her in the room upstairs. She was one of those who had voted against Blunt. But she didn’t look nearly as poised now—she had big bruises on her face, was limping and clearly winced as she held her right hand close to her chest.

“Ugh,” she said in between gasps, “I’m looking for the doctor’s office…”

“It’s right through these doors,” said Dave, pointing at the door saying CLINIC. He wasn’t trying to be funny—the woman was clearly not quite thinking properly.

“Here, let me help you,” he said, opening the door and welcoming her in. Gabi entered first and opened a wheelchair so that the woman could sit down.

“Thanks,” she said while sitting. “I have a few broken fingers, so I’m looking for—.”

“-painkillers and a cast, right,” said Dave.

They rolled into the other room and saw supplies. The place wasn’t locked but neither was it staffed. Dave noticed that Sonia had followed but kept her distance after seeing the woman’s swollen hand. They rolled the chair next to a table, and the woman winced as she put her hand on the flat surface.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here…” he said.

There was clearly an injury there, but no protruding bones, which was already encouraging. Weird diamond-shaped bruise on her hand, though.

“I’m not a medical professional, but I have first-aid training. Do you want me to put your hand in a makeshift cast?”

She nodded wordlessly, her breathing fast and shallow.

“Gabi, check if you can find painkillers. I’ll look around for the cast.”

He scanned the shelves, quickly going over his first-aid training. The third time he’d gotten injured while poking around dusty basements and attics, Gabi had insisted that they both follow first-aid courses and get anti-tetanus shots.   It had paid off several times since then, so why not again today?

Ah-ha—he saw finger splints and gauze on the shelves. He quickly took what he needed, then went back to the woman.

Meanwhile, Gabi came back with over-the-counter pain medication—not quite horse tranquillizers, but enough to dull the pain for now.

Gabi gave two pills to the woman and got a cup of water, while Dave prepared the finger splits. 

“I’m not sure if all three of your middle fingers are broken, so I’m going to put all three in a splint and then tape them together. This should immobilize them until you get real medical attention.”

He was already at work before she could nod.

“You were upstairs—serving food.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You saw everything.”

“Most of it.”

“What do you think?”

“Haven’t had time for thinking yet, ma’am.”

No sense in volunteering any information or accidentally saying something to upset her. Dave wasn’t sure who she was, but she had to be a Cabinet member and the sooner they’d go their separate ways, the better it would be.

“This really wasn’t what I was expecting coming here tonight,” she said, and everyone laughed a bit too loudly at that.

“But I’ve seen you before,” said the woman to Sonia. “Online, I think.”

Her brows furrowed as Dave finished putting the three fingers in their splint. Now to tape them all together…

“You! You’re the kakistocracy video woman!”

Sonia sighed, bowed her head in acknowledgement and said nothing.

“You realize that some of us are trying to do their best, right? That we’re not necessarily out to loot the coffers, as you implied.”

Dave cringed inwardly. 

“I’m glad you’re acting like a public servant,” answered Sonia, “but can you say the same about your colleagues? If I’ve followed the news correctly, you had a few differences with them already.”

This seemed to hit a target because the woman stayed silent for a while. Dave hurried—the longer this went on, the more the conversation could go badly. He taped the fingers together, making sure to leave her thumb free so that she could get some use out of the hand. The pinkie, meanwhile, looked unaffected.

“There,” he said, “try to keep it above your heart to keep the blood flowing.”

The woman pulled the hand, looked at the cast and tried rotating her wrist.

“Thank you,” she finally said. “I already feel better.”

She shuddered.

“Isn’t it really cold all of a sudden?”

Dave looked at Gabi, then Sonia. Both of them shrugged.

“Can’t say I notice a difference.” Was this incoming shock? Were her injuries worse than just the hand?

The woman got up.

“So cold… so cold…”

Before anyone could say anything, the woman left the clinic for the central corridor.

“Much better. Much warmer here. No, wait, it’s getting colder again.”

They followed. Dave didn’t notice any significant changes in temperature.

The woman tried walking toward the West Wing, then visibly shuddered and changed direction.

Before Dave thought to follow, part of the cabinet descended the central stairs, also complaining of the cold.

Of common accord, Dave, Gabi and Sonia stayed away from the stairs, getting closer to the walls of the central corridor in an attempt to stay out of their field of vision.

“Miranda! Aren’t you cold?” said one man.

“It’s warmer this way.”

“It’s true—maybe the ballroom has working heaters,” he said while heading west to the colonnade linking the Executive Residence with the East Wing ballroom.

A stream of cabinet members followed, all going to the East Room of their own accord.

Dave and the others retreated farther away.

“Temperature hasn’t changed?” he said. 

They shook her head. If someone knew about temperature changes, it was Gabi.

“Sudden drafts and people feeling cold are part of haunted house lore,” pointed out Sonia. “Although, in this case, I can’t shake the thought that they’re being herded.”

🏛️

Harry liked the West Wing even less than the rest of the White House. Whereas the East Wing was a (badly built) blank slate and the Executive Residence had the grandeur of a palace, the West Wing was this patched-up collection of cramped offices, insufficient meeting rooms and tiny corridors. It hadn’t been seriously updated in decades, and aside from the Oval Office and that old TV show, it gathered almost no interest whatsoever from outside. 

The smart cookies knew that the best offices were in the Eisenhower Executive building next door… but, of course, you were automatically a second-class staffer if (horror) you were located there. The real people of importance gritted their teeth and worked in the cramped quarters of the West Wing.

Still, Harry was surprised to see that no one was left here. Wasn’t this the thinking hive of this administration? Weren’t they in the middle of a crisis? Where was everyone supposed to be working late?

Still, he was here to find a way out and, so far, was not having any success. As an engineer, he knew how to approach an electrified door—you touched it with a screwdriver with a non-conductive handle. So far, every way outside was shockingly forbidden—the Palm Room’s norther-facing door, its southern exit to the West Colonnade, the door in the Oval Office, the tunnel to the Eisenhower building and now, finally, the main lobby exit. 

Clearly, they weren’t getting out of the house through the West Wing.

But the most unsettling thing was that there was no one here. Harry had never seen it so deserted, even late at night: there were always a few security guards around to keep an eye on things—and most of the time, at least two or three harried staffers burning the night oil to deliver something urgent for the next morning.

Where had they all gone?

🏛️

Miranda found herself almost irresistibly pulled toward the East Wing. Other than the ballroom, not much had been completed yet in Blunt’s reconstruction plans: There were a few small temporary offices north of the ballroom that provided an indoor passageway from the East Colonnade to the ballroom, but otherwise not much had been completed.

Other members of the cabinet were also converging toward the East Ballroom. She noticed that Kean was in the ballroom, flanked by two Secret Service agents and the chief of staff. Why weren’t they in the PEOC? 

The forty-or-so of them looked lost in the three-storey-high ballroom. Compared to the right-sized State Dining Room, they looked like ants in a large box. Almost unconsciously, they all remained clustered near the north end of the ballroom, trying to find some company in the too-vast space.

Miranda’s mind was clearing up, probably because of the painkillers that those nice young people in the infirmary had given her. The young man had done a pretty good job on her hand—immobilizing the fingers prevented the jolts of pain she got whenever her fingers moved or hit something else. Thumb and pinkie were working as well as could be expected.

Even the rest of her hurt slightly less now that the painkillers were doing their job. The young woman had slipped her the entire bottle, so she should be fine popping those until they got out.

Speaking of which—where was the rescue? Thanks to the ballroom’s large windows, she could see outside easily enough and it looked like a calm Washington night like any other. Where were the flashes of the police cars, the mobile cranes, the motorized rams, and the helicopters out to rescue them? For that matter—what had happened to the protests that were engulfing the city when they were cut off?

Was she even seeing the real outside as it existed now? Somehow, after the far-future light show, she doubted it.

The large windowpanes were attracting the attention of a few people. She drew closer.

“The windows can’t be electrified,” confidently asserted SecDef.

“Good idea!” said the Secretary of Health. “How about we try smashing them?”

“They’re meant to be bulletproof,” pointed out the Chief of Staff.

“Let’s try it out. If they can be damaged, they can be destroyed.”

“Let’s ask the Secret Service agents,” said Kean. “Gary’s not here? Okay, how about Sean? Sean?”

“Yes, sir?”

Sean had been the agent to fire at that supernatural lady, and he still looked like someone who had been thrown at a wall.

“Shoot at one of the windows. How about right there, lower left?”

“They’re meant to be bulletproof, sir.”

“Do I need to do it myself?”

“No, sir.”

“Then get closer and take the shot.”

Sean nodded, advanced a few paces and ended up three yards from the window. Carefully holding his gun using a two-handed stance, he aimed straight to the window to maximize its impact and minimize the chances of the bullet flying off at an angle.

He fired…

…and immediately was struck down.

SecEnergy and the AG approached closer. But even from where she was standing a few feet back, Miranda could see that Sean would never get up. There was a bullet hole in his forehead—an unnatural ricochet, but one that anyone should have expected from a building intent on keeping them locked in.

The House would not let them leave.

She shook her head and she walked to Gord and the rest of the Patriots crew. They weren’t obviously shunned by the Blunt loyalists, but a demarcation between both was re-opening.

“You saw that?” she asked.

They all nodded at the inevitability of it.

“No one has found a way out,” said Gord. “Kean says that the PEOC was open and unmanned.”

“There’s another bunker,” pointed out Energy.

“Not tried yet. All the doors we tried were electrified, and everyone is accounted for.”

Were you the one who stepped on my hand, Gord? Or was it the Secretary of Veterans Affairs? Or the Secretary of Defense? Which one of you left me for dead as just another useless lump on the floor, as an obstacle on your way out?

Suddenly nauseous and unable to tolerate her company any longer, she looked around and spotted the exit to the washroom. Her hand hurt less, but it was still hurting, so she had to be careful when moving. She cautiously made her way to the ladies’ room—if nothing else, she’d get a chance to pee.

Along the way, she saw that the loyalists’ inner circle was being summoned to the temporary offices.

🏛️

“Get SecDef in here,” said Peggy to the Director of National Intelligence, as if he was just a low-level gofer. “We’ve got things to discuss.”

The Blunt loyalists were gathering—Hiller had asked them to follow him to the offices north of the ballroom, and he had that look that had already led to several disastrous ideas.

Nonetheless, people obeyed. Kean dismissed his Secret Service agents so that they would stand guard at the outside of the small room they’d commandeered. That was already quite a show of trust.

Or maybe not—as Peggy looked at the people invited by Hiller, she knew that they all shared another deep-buried secret. One that Peggy didn’t even like to think about.

“What is this about?” asked the Attorney General.

“Not yet,” said Hiller. “Two people are still missing. I just want to say this once.”

Oh fucking shit—along with the Secret Service agents being sent outside, this was a hint that what was going to be discussed was inner-sanctum stuff.

The Secretary of Defense arrived, still quite obviously inebriated. He was half-followed and half-supported by Thursk.

Hiller nodded.

“All right. You know what we’ve done to get here. Our… deal with Uncle Sam. Well, I think we can ask for something else.”

There was an evil little smile on Hiller’s mouth.

“What if there was a way to bring back Blunt?”

Confused expressions answered him.

“I’m not sure I like where this is going,” said Kean. “That’s horseshit.”

Everyone in the room could read Kean’s self-interested mind, but he spoke for most.

“We’ve asked for, and received, favours from Uncle Sam, as much as from our privileged friends.”

Hiller cut a glance at Thursk.

“But there are things that only Uncle Sam can do. Things we would consider unnatural. Even impossible.”

“Like winning an election despite an incredibly flawed candidate.”

“No, I mean like raising the dead. Better and improved while we’re at it.”

At any other time, with any other audience, this would have been a laughable statement.

Instead, seven of the most powerful people in the United States considered it carefully.

“Nonsense,” said SecDef.

“I don’t believe that’s possible,” said Kean.

“You got any better idea?” said the DNI. “What have we got to lose?”

“There will be a price,” said Peggy.

“There is always a price. Sacrifices need to be made. And we know where to find them.”

🏛️

Miranda took a look at herself in the washroom’s mirror. 

Not too bad for a fifty-something still awake after bedtime. Hair getting curlier and more tangled, but otherwise—

Oh, who was she kidding? The bruises on her face would turn blue by tomorrow. Her teeth still hurt. Her hand needed medical attention. Her back occasionally spasmed even despite the painkillers.

Oof. She entered one of the stalls and sat down on the toilet. She sighed, too tired to pull down her pants just yet. Despite this being a washroom for the dignitaries invited to the White House, the contractors had slapped in bargain-basement stalls with partitions that still left a foot’s gap with the floor.

Gradually, she felt a weight being lifted from her shoulders. 

This wasn’t a metaphor—she felt herself growing lighter and lighter, almost as if…

By the time she felt herself nearing weightlessness, she didn’t think—she pulled herself down to the floor and jammed herself in the stall partition’s bottom gap as far as she could go.

Then the room turned upside down—she felt the gravity invert itself and being jammed between a partition and the floor was the only thing preventing her from falling hard to the ceiling.

She heard loud screams from the ballroom. Then THUDs.

🏛️

Peggy landed on the ceiling with her shoulder, grunting at the impact. It was bearable—the temporary room in which they were only had a seven-foot ceiling, and the gradual change of gravity had helped them.

Not like those poor bastards in the ballroom, falling down three stories with a THUD.

Then gravity reverted itself again.

🏛️

The changes of gravity were getting more and more frequent. It wasn’t the gentle shift of the first inversion—it was getting slammed up and down, to the point where Miranda got the feeling of being in a large box being violently shaken.

She heard more noises from the ballroom—the screams had stopped, and only the THUDs remained.

🏛️

After a few shakes, it eventually stopped.

Peggy hurt, and she was in good company—everyone in the room was groaning in pain.

“I think I broke something,” said Kean, which Peggy found difficult to believe coming from tubby-boy. His face alone should have absorbed all impacts.

But in the end, the Blunt loyalists were shaken, stirred and mostly intact: Bruised but not broken. As if they’d fallen down a flight of stairs.

“This house hates us, and we’re stuck in it. Now, how about we get some unnatural help?” said Hiller.

🏛️

All around Miranda, the dead laid broken.

Stepping into the ballroom was like stepping into a battlefield, or a level of hell. 

It was raining red.

Most of the cabinet and America’s trillionaires had been wiped out. They had fallen down three stories onto hard surfaces not once, but several times—Miranda wasn’t too sure how many. By the end of the shakes, the gravity was shifting so violently that it was probably like falling down from thrice the height. Their bodies were spread over the northern end of the ballroom like so many immobile dolls.

Some of them had visibly broken arms and legs—compound fractures with bones poking out of the skin, appendages at obscene angles from the rest of their bodies.

Some of them had fallen on their heads. Smashed faces, broken skulls, exposed brains. Looking up to the ceiling, Miranda could see large red splotches where the flesh had broken upon contact. Some of it fell on her in a red patter.

Some of them were somehow still alive. But not for long. Their groans were growing fainter. Miranda stood there, increasingly bloodied, and could do nothing.

Two or three tech titans, familiar household names, laid in a pile in a tangled embrace. From the shape of their skulls, none of them were still alive.

There was Gord, his jaw split open. There may still have been a flicker of life in his eyes, but it died out as she got closer. She looked at his shoes. A diamond-shaped heel.

A small laugh escaped her as she surveyed the carnage and blood rained on her head.

You were only too happy to step on me to get out of this place, weren’t you? Look at you now. Look at all of you now!

🏛️

“We stay under low ceilings from now on,” said Hiller. “We’ll need to go back to the Executive Residence and then… you know… below.”

“Where are we going? What do we need?”

“We’re going to need his corpse, and a few sacrifices.”

🏛️

The smell of shit and vomit still hung in the air of the State Dining Room.

Gabi wanted more footage of Blunt, and at that point Dave was not in a mood to argue.

That’s why they had gone back up to the State Dining Room, and Gabrielle was shooting the scene in near-clinical detail.

Their discussion downstairs had been brief

“No one will believe us when we make it out of here,” she said.

If we make it out of here, he had not corrected her.

“So, I want the footage. I mean, you realize we’re either going to become celebrities giving a testimonial to the entire world, or they’re going to hush this up so thoroughly that we won’t even be able to mention that we were here today. I want footage, either as back-up or insurance.”

He didn’t even need to voice his objection.

“Yes, I know, they will probably be able to confiscate everything, strip us naked and take a full-body MRI before letting us loose. But even a bit of insurance is better than no insurance at all.”

He agreed with that.

Their golden opportunity to film a show at the White House was not turning out as they hoped. Would any of this even be usable? Heck, what could the official spin on this even be? JFK slashes president’s throat is not something you can just spring on the population, nor could it even be gradually introduced. And having a show about that day at the White House pop up on a minor video channel? Even the ever-optimistic Dave couldn’t find a way to rationalize that.

As agreed with Gabi and Sonia, they would get footage of a few exchanges in the room—just to establish they had been there. 

“Do you still want to go on camera, Sonia?”

“Oh, sure,” she said without any emotion.

Yikes, thought Dave. She had taken this the hardest out of any of them. Or maybe she had taken it in as everyone else should have—been in the room during the brutal death of a president, had her entire worldview shattered, and had been addressed by the living symbol of a nation.

Dave supposed that if he stopped to think about it, he’d probably feel the same way.

Instead, he looked at the camera lens and turned on the showman.

This one’s for you, Mike, he thought—this time with a chill.

🏛️

At some point, Harry’s expedition in the West Wing has turned from finding an exit to making sure if the building was really empty. 

After convincing himself that there was no way out of the West Wing through the exits on the first floor, he went upstairs and started knocking on doors. 

“Hello? Anyone here?”

The second floor was a designated warren for policy wonks—advisors to the administration on matters of economic policy or national affairs. The place was usually staffed around the clock, with maybe a lull sometime between one and five o’clock at night. But now? No one. Absolutely no one. It looked as if everyone had simply decided to end their day and go home. Which, on the evening of a catastrophic day, seemed unusual.

Increasingly frantic, he went downstairs.

“Is there anyone around?” she shouted.

The eeriness of the emptiness was even stranger on the ground floor. A look at the Secret Service offices—nothing. The situation room was unstaffed. 

He finally found three more people—in the basement’s mess hall kitchen. They were prepping food, following their usual plan for the overnight shift.

“Haven’t you noticed that everyone is gone?” he told the shift leader.

“Hey, it was hard enough to get here,” said the stocky fortysomething. “I don’t want to get behind on the prep.”

Gradually, the story emerged—they had come in shortly after six, after battling increasingly hostile traffic and crowds along the way. They’d noticed many people getting out of the West Wing, but they had shrugged, put on their headphones and rocked their initial prep work. The extent to which they’d noticed an interruption in the mess hall was limited to having more time to clean up the mess kitchen and pantry—the kind of stuff they’d always wanted to do but had trouble justifying when the restaurant was deep in evening visitors.

“Have you tried getting out?” asked Harry.

Of course not, they said—too much stuff to do; plus, it was fun being just the three of them finally getting the pantry back in order, you know?

“Maybe you’d be better off joining the rest of the kitchen crew over in the main kitchen.”

Eeeh, they said—that’s the big kitchen, and they didn’t go there often.

Harry shrugged and told them where to find them—through the press briefing room and palm room, then to the left. 

The guys didn’t seem too eager.

But that gave an idea to Harry—if most of the political officers of the building had left, could there be other people up in the executive residence? 

🏛️

Outside the East Wing conference room, Peggy saw that the two Secret Service agents were battered but still functional—the ceiling there had also been low, and the agents had the physical training and stamina to curl up in a ball and suffer through the ordeal.

The ballroom, however, was something else—a bloodbath of broken bodies, with the Secretary of Agriculture somehow alive in the middle of it and getting drenched in blood from above.

“I guess I was lucky,” she smiled when they asked her.

With the rivulets of blood running through the long straight dark hair draped over much of her face, she looked like a horror movie character and she didn’t seem to mind much.

Peggy and the other loyalists left her alone, not quite convinced she was human… or sane. The professionally bandaged hand and the fact that she winced every time she moved argued against her being supernatural, but on the other hand—seeing her standing up in a room filled with broken cadavers was eloquent enough.

The Secret Service agents eventually clarified she had been in the bathroom, and that answered their questions. Well, some of them.

On the other hand, the rest of the cabinet and the half-dozen other trillionaires had been wiped out. Peggy was happier about it than she would have expected: her relationships with other Cabinet members had been transactional (they wanted access to the president; she wanted them out of her hair), and she knew that most of them hated her guts for being a bitch from the sticks. Walking among them, alive when they were not, was just about the most satisfying feeling in the world.

If she tallied the losses, most had gone to the insurrectionists and the billionaires, who hadn’t been particularly receptive to helping out Blunt with the ongoing crisis. Good riddance. Sure, there were a few allies in the bunch—but not the members of the inner circle. All in all, not necessarily a bad housecleaning. Maybe this would set an example—you do not fuck with the Blunt administration.

On the other hand—part of her was already in crisis management mode, screaming that they would never be able to explain this to the press and that they now had twenty vacancies to fill up in the middle of a term and that they would need to have the ballroom cleaned.

Of course, all of this was conditional on them making it out of the White House at the end of the night, which wasn’t a certainty at this point.

It probably said a lot that she didn’t hate Hiller’s plan now. They were running out of options, facing supernatural threats and their biggest ally was practically a cartoon character. Any help they could get would be welcome.

Now, to find the needed sacrifices…

Chapter 12 — Hunters and Refugees

“Well, here we are in the White House, specifically the State Dining Room, where a series of very strange events has just occurred. Through a set of circumstances that we’ll detail later, my guest Sonia Sheer and I were asked to help serve the cabinet dinner and while doing so, we were witness to history. Sonia, I’m not that knowledgeable when it comes to political details, so could you explain what we just saw.”

“Yes, well, Dave,” she said in flat monotone, “we witnessed an unprecedented use of the Twenty-Fifth amendment to temporarily remove President Blunt from office and replace him with Vice-President Kean. I should probably explain that this is a strictly constitutional procedure and um…”

Sonia moved to be closer to Blunt’s body. Gabi’s camera followed, even though this wasn’t in the plan that they’d quickly drawn up.

“…it doesn’t really matter now, doesn’t it? Blunt survived his removal from office by about a minute, after which none other than fucking JFK came out of his fucking painting and used a fucking buck knife to fucking slash Blunt’s throat and you know what—he fucking deserved it!”

Suddenly animated, she kicked Blunt’s body in the groin.

“He deserved it because, in their infinite stupidity, the American public took a look at a con man, a malignant narcissist, a convicted sexual aggressor, a businessman so inept that he bankrupted his own casinos, and said—wow, that’s exactly the kind of man who should lead us!—and they did it twice!”

She kicked Blunt’s corpse again, clearly getting into it.

They were far, far off-script by now—and Dave was pretty sure that presidential corpse-kicking had to be illegal in some way.

“This is someone who, when he lost his re-election, launched an assault against another branch of government, was never tried for this attempted coup d’état, was allowed to run again and then pardoned everyone who had been convicted for those acts. This is a president who handed out get-out-of-jail pardons to his allies, and instructed the Department of Justice to draw spurious accusations against his political enemies. Blunt never believed in democracy or the rule of law, because he was too stupid to understand them!”

Incandescent, she stared straight at the camera and Dave had to admit that this was must-see footage.

“Here we stand in the house of Lincoln, Roosevelt, Jefferson, and Kennedy and here deservedly lies someone who should never have been elevated to their ranks. Blunt was a blight upon the nation and his influence will take decades to cure. Go burn in hell and good riddance!”

She spat on the former president’s face.

“And the worst thing is that it’s too late. It doesn’t matter. The damage made on civil society is irreparable. The American population is too far gone. In any well-functioning society, Blunt would have been laughed out of any serious political process. But not the good old United States of America! Oh no! We’re too special for that! Decades of poor education, wealth inequality and right-wing propaganda have ensured that we don’t even have a functioning democracy anymore!”

She pointed at the camera.

“Neoliberal policies have ensured a steady decrease in everyone’s living standards, and then the billionaire-run media has told everyone to blame everyone but the rich. Finally, the American people got the president they wanted—someone as crass, as flawed and as stupid as they were. Where do we go from here? Nowhere good. The best-case scenario is a civil war in which the battle lines are between educated cities and rural idiots. The worst-case scenario is starting a nuclear war for shit and giggles because our government is literally run by the worst of us.”

A deep voice emerged from behind her.

“Kakistocracy. A government by the least competent citizens.”

Dave turned and looked up.

Abraham Lincoln emerged from the painting above the fireplace. 

He had risen from the armchair in the painting and was now standing above the mantlepiece. Reaching back inside the painting, he took back his stovepipe hat and kept it in his left hand.

“Most eloquent, dear Professor Sheer,” he said while climbing down an invisible staircase. “Your video made quite a stir in this house upon its release. Largely for the wrong reason—very few people sympathized with you.”

Jesus fucking Christ—even Lincoln had seen the video, and Dave still hadn’t.

“But the House,” said Lincoln while shaking his index in affirmation, “the House liked it very much.”

Dave looked at Sonia and she could not have been more starstruck—what could top getting praise from Lincoln?

“You put into words what it thought. Blunt was not a dignified occupant. This house has seen many weak presidents, but never one quite as venal or morally corrupt. Alas, the House is afraid that you are correct—the problem is much larger than Blunt, starting with his loyalists and running all the way to his supporters.”

While talking, Lincoln circled the table and ended up at Blunt’s side.

“Dark days for America. The historical precedents are not edifying. Everyone knows where this is headed—fear, terror, dictatorship, and mass killings. If we’re lucky, eventual revolution in which more people die and most aristocrats keep their riches. If we’re not lucky… feudalism, in which most aristocrats keep their riches.”

He smiled sadly at them.

“Hence something must be done. The House and Lady Columbia do not necessarily agree on everything, but on this, at least, our interests converge. Lady Columbia is quite busy at the moment, so it falls upon The House to protect you.”

“Mr. Lincoln, I…” tried to say Sonia.

“Oh, we are not Lincoln. We merely adopted his appearance. Some things need to be done through a physical presence, and Lincoln has a few advantages over many of this house’s previous occupants.”

Dave could see that—even today, Lincoln was tall at six feet four, and he dimly recalled that the president had been an expert-level wrestler in his youth.

“You should be aware that all three of you are in danger at the moment. Blunt lickspittles are scouring the house for you, and their intentions are murderous. Be careful. Fortunately, we have business to attend with those same hooligans.”

Lincoln took a very large axe out of his stovepipe and put the hat back on his head, making him look even taller. With both hands on the axe handle, the effect was very impressive. It was reassuring to be told he would protect them. The Rail Splitter, thought Dave. The Slender Man.

Lincoln smiled.

“It’s time for us to take inspiration from a very amusing film that was shown in the former House movie theatre a few years ago. We believe it was called… Abraham Lincoln, Human Hunter.”

🏛️

Harry had the keys and codes for most of the White House, but there were places in the building that were forbidden to him behind several layers of disapproval. Any non-emergency repair and maintenance work there had to be approved by the President’s staff. The second floor of the Executive Residence was one of those—where the president and his family stayed. 

Five bedrooms, eight bathrooms, one kitchen, one dining room, six miscellaneous living, sitting or official rooms—plus an incredible number of closets. In theory, the president could have his family and a few guests in two nearly self-contained suites. In practice, Blunt seemed to live alone here. Harry had never seen any of his adult children, and his wife was more often than not away at their Florida residence.

He tried not to linger too long anywhere—he was looking for people, not touring the place. From the elevator coming up from the kitchen, he found no one in the dining room, the master bedroom or the living room, where a TV was on but tuned to a dead channel. He passed through the Yellow Oval Room, then the so-called Treaty Room—still nothing. Crossing the Central Hall to the two bedrooms in the middle of the floor, he thought he heard noise from the East sitting hall and went to investigate.

Two maids were busy rearranging linen in the Queen Room’s bedroom.

“We’ll be done in a few minutes, mister sir,” one of them said, mistaking him for the Chief Usher—Harry got that a lot.

“Have you noticed anything strange around here?”

Well, now that he asked, the maids did notice odds things here and there—it had been tough to get here and much of the usual staff was missing, and their ears had popped at the same time earlier in the evening, and their phones weren’t working, and it was all spooky quiet except for things like the noise of doors closing elsewhere on the floor.

Harry distantly recalled that he had first invited Dave to debunk those things for the benefit of the overly suspicious staff that had been going crazy with imagined scares. It hadn’t worked out as intended.

“You have to go to the downstairs kitchen,” said Harry as forcefully as he could. “We’re banding together because we’re locked in. Strange things have been happening, and more of them will happen soon.”

🏛️

They moved quietly through the Executive Residence’s Entrance Hall. Peggy eyed the too-high ceiling, but knew that the first floor of the building was of uniform height. Still, they headed for the central Blue Room according to plan: if the house was determined to shake them up like bugs in a box, a smaller room would be easier to survive.

She was along Hiller, the Secretary of Defense, and the two Secret Service agents. They would need muscle to move Blunt’s body to the subbasement: the dead president had long been only a few fries away from morbid obesity, and dragging him would take several people. Then they’d focus on hunting down the sacrifices.

If any of them were around, it wouldn’t make sense to spook them, so they had agreed to head to Blunt’s body through the salons, avoiding the too-obvious central corridor. In the Blue Room, they approached the window, then took the southernmost door to the Red Room.

They nearly made it across to the State Dining Room when they realized someone else was in the Red Room.

“Evening, Lady and Gentlemen.”

Peggy was startled and looked back. Sitting on the sofa on the east wall, so still that they had not noticed him out of the corner of their eyes, was a very tall man dressed in a black suit, a stovepipe top hat and an axe resting across his legs. He was…

“Abraham Lincoln?” she whispered.

He gave her a hat tip.

“Almost. Not that we suspect you care so much about historical precedent, considering your behaviour during the past few years.”

He got up, and Peggy appreciated his height.

He hefted the axe in his hands a few times.

“It’s a shame we couldn’t find a less dignified place for your demise,” he said, raising the axe.

Gary shot Abraham Lincoln a few times. Three shots, closely grouped on the chest.

Lincoln stopped, but otherwise barely reacted.

“Really? Don’t you know we know what it’s like to be shot?”

Gary screamed and charged Lincoln like a bull.

Lincoln easily swatted him with his right hand, sending him crashing into the north door frame.

The other Secret Service agent tried to do the same, and the result was the same—both agents groaned on the floor.

SecDef made a motion to turn and run, but hands came out of the wall and pulled him back against the red paint, unable to move.

As Peggy stepped back toward the south window, Lincoln crossed the room in two steps of his long legs, then raised the axe.

“It will be over before you know it,” he said gently to a terrified SecDef.

The hands rearranged themselves around SecDef, pulling his head to the left to expose his neck.

“In fact, we doubt you understand much of what’s happening right now.”

Lincoln brought down the axe with surprising force, aiming for the inebriated man’s neck and chopping deep inside. So deep that the axe, in one fell swoop, cracked through the collar and chest bones to slice open SecDef’s heart. He pulled the axe out of the chest with a grunt, and blood sprayed out of the man’s body like a fountain, splashing Lincoln but not making much of a difference against the Red Room’s burgundy walls.

The blood-splattered Lincoln turned toward Peggy, who had soiled herself in the interim. Meanwhile, Hiller was whimpering on the floor.

“Abandon your plans,” said Lincoln. “The only deaths in this House are those allowed by this House.”

🏛️

Having scoured the rest of the Executive Residence to no result, Harry went back to the ground kitchen. There he found the known innocents of the White House—two maids, three kitchen workers, two waitstaff and the trio of influencers. Those three had another story to tell. Harry listed for a moment, increasingly dumbfounded. Even despite everything that had happened so far, this felt delirious.

“You’re shittin’ me, right?”

Anticipating the question, Gabrielle played back her recording. Before long, Harry was surrounded by everyone else watching the screen.

“We can’t get the hell out of here?” asked one of the kitchen workers after the obvious questions and answers.

“I’ve tried every door in the West Wing,” said Harry. “All electrified. I’d be surprised if it was any different anywhere else.”

“Fuck, man, what does it mean?”

“We have to let things play out between gods and monsters far more powerful than we are,” said Sonia.

🏛️

There were twelve of them left in the East Wing’s shabby temporary offices. Peggy, Kean, Thursk, SecState, Treasury, Commerce, the AG, Homeland Security, the worm-addled buffoon in charge of Health, and the two Secret Service agents.

Lady Blood, as Peggy thought of the Secretary of Agriculture, was still sitting outside in the ballroom, staring impassively at the bodies scattered around her. No one dared disturb her.

“And he just let you go?” asked Kean incredulously.

“He wanted to send a message,” said Peggy.

“And what’s the message? ‘Death is coming?’  What kind of nonsense is that?”

“More specifically, what can we do against that?” said the AG.

“We should move to the DUCC,” said Homeland Security.

“Which only has one exit point. We don’t even know if that thing goes through walls.”

“Well, I do!” said a new voice.

They turned. Uncle Sam, complete with colourful top hat and dark handgun, finished emerging from the cheap partition.

“Why so sad, my friends? Uncle Sam is on your side! How about we go and take care of business?”

🏛️

“I would feel better if we were somewhere else,” said Delilah.

She looked over at one corner of the kitchen, and Harry understood her point. When the mysterious DUCC had been constructed under the north lawn of the White House, its entrance elevator has been retrofitted next to the kitchen, and for good reason:  The spiral stairs that led from the ground-floor kitchen to the second floor’s family kitchen were the most direct way from the President’s bedroom to the basement. In case of a nighttime emergency where ICBMs would be flying toward the White House, Secret Service agents would manhandle the President from bed to bunker as quickly as possible. The next likely scenario was that the President would be working in the Oval Office, in which case a quick egress through the West Wing colonnade would quickly bring him to the same spot through the Palm Room.

In other words, they were right in the path of anyone wanting access to the bunker, which was sure to become a priority.

“Let’s go the other way,” suggested Harry. “Up! Third floor, away from everything. Easy enough to reach from here. It’s already set up like a hotel—enough bedrooms for everyone to wait it out.”

But wait what out?

🏛️

Uncle Sam’s intervention had roused them enough so that they agreed to make another attempt at retrieving the body—half of them would go up and try to pull Blunt’s corpse toward the DUCC entrance, while the other half would head directly to the bunker.

Peggy had reminded them of Lincoln’s warning against further deaths. Their intentions were pure, she shrugged: No deaths on the menu.

It didn’t feel convincing, but it was something.

🏛️

It was after midnight, and Harry felt it—on the maintenance crew, you got used to getting up early to take care of business. Now it was definitely past his bedtime.

As he led his crew of waitstaff, servants and kitchen workers to the third floor, he was struck by a certainty.

“Let’s not split up,” he said. “We need to stay together.”

“Is there a room big enough for all of us?” asked one of the kitchen workers.

“The Solarium,” both said Sonia and Harry.

They looked at each other and nodded, satisfied they’d hit upon the correct answer.

He led them to their destination through the central corridor.

The Solarium was a room south of the Executive Residence’s third floor, built on top of the iconic South Portico that was, for many, the defining feature of the White House. Jutting away from the third-floor structure, it was an enclosed space generously illuminated by windows on three sides, hence the name.

Not that they would get much sunlight considering the early morning hours. The maids went to close the drapes so that the inside would be better-lit by the lights reflected.

The reason why they had picked the room was obvious—the space was furnished with three sofas, half a dozen easy chairs and a kitchenette. There was one entrance, which they could guard. They would all find a place to rest, and while Harry doubted that he’d be able to doze off with the adrenaline coursing through his veins, it was good to be able to sit down for a while.

The three groups of workers each commanded a sofa—the burly kitchen crew looking a bit silly trying to all fit in a too-small piece of furniture.

“Are you sure we can’t get out of here?” asked one of the kitchen workers. “There’s this nice door leading to the promenade outside.”

Harry handed him a screwdriver.

“Touch the doorknob with the screwdriver and you’ll see why. Don’t touch it with your hand!”

The kitchen worker took the screwdriver, but ended up trying the handle with his hand. A blue crackle taught him the error of his way.

Harry smirked at the colourful language the man used. Ignore me, will ya?

He himself took one of the easy chairs, while the three influencers clustered their three chairs next to him. Sonia got up, pulled a drape and looked in the distance west of the White House.

“Something wrong?”

“I just realized that while we’re seeing light outside, I’m not seeing movement. No planes from the airport, no helicopters, no traffic, no flashing lights, no moon. No riots, either, the way things were going earlier today.”

“We’re stuck in time?” asked Dave. “After what we saw earlier…”

“I’m more thinking about matte paintings used in movies. An illusion meant to fool you, maybe reassure you that the world exists outside.”

“So, if we’re waiting for dawn… we may wait forever?”

“Oh, I’m not saying that. My phone clock is still working.”

Harry glanced at his and regretted it—ooh, I should be sleeping by now.

“Think logically, not rationally—what’s the biggest cliché of horror movies?”

“Oh, I don’t watch horror…”

“Survive until dawn!” said Gabrielle.

“Exactly.”

🏛️

Miranda’s very expensive tailored outfit was ruined.

The blood that had fallen on her was starting to dry. She could feel it in her hair, which smelled of copper and was clumping as strands were stuck together. 

She had pulled a chair in the middle of the bodies and was sitting there, waiting for the next thing to happen. Hopefully, another screwy gravity episode to take her out. Maybe Lady Columbia lopping off her head with a sword. Maybe Uncle Sam blowing a hole in her chest for having been insufficiently loyal. She had heard the excited chatter of the loyalists, as they had described how their hunt for the three civilians had been interrupted by none other than Abraham Lincoln cleaving SecDef’s torso nearly in half with an axe.

Maybe she should go check that out and see it for herself. The drunk oaf had tried to grope her once. It would be sweet to kick him in the face.

It struck her that she could pretty much do anything at this point. The impeccably mannered Southern Belle was gone. Everyone around her had died, so what made her so special to believe she would pull through? They were puppets in a gory play and, in the end, they would all be stuffed in the same grave.

Until that happened, no manner the manner in which it would happen, why not have fun? She could lick a doorknob leading outside, pee on the Resolute Desk, set fire to the library or take one of the kitchen’s meat cleavers to the remaining loyalists and who would care? They were going to die. Even if the unlikely happened and the doors unlocked at sunrise, exactly no one would believe any of it.

Hmmm. 

🏛️

“Jesus Christ, that fucker’s heavy!” grunted the Secretary of the Treasury while pulling the former president’s nearly beheaded corpse through the State Dining Room.

“He stinks too!” said Commerce.

The body was leaving a streak of blood on the carpet.

Hopefully, that’ll clean up, thought Peggy.

“No sweat, no salvation!” said Uncle Sam while tap-dancing on the green marble table.

The plan was to pull Blunt’s body to the nearest elevator, then go to the ground floor. But the President’s size required so much effort from four people (Secret Service agent Stu, plus Homeland Security, Treasury and Commerce), that it wasn’t clear how, exactly, they were going to all fit in there.

To the sound of tapping, they finally pushed the body into the elevator, not caring too much about the dignity of the corpse. A leg still poked out. A few vigorous kicks later, Blunt’s corpse was jumbled into the small elevator and their small group headed for the stairs leading to the ground floor.

Peggy looked again at JFK’s portrait and saw that it had changed again, to an insolent pointed finger and a wink.

Kean, Thursk, SecState, the AG and Health had gone ahead directly to the DUCC, hoping to find the facility staffed. If it was, they would try to cordon off the way to the deeper bunker so that they could bring Blunt directly there.

They would try to put Blunt’s body on a gurney of some sort downstairs—there was a clinic, and they could probably find something to carry him.

They were halfway through the Entrance Hall when a tall dark figure came out of the doorway in front of them, blocking the way to the stairs.

Abraham Lincoln.

Hefting his axe, he raised an eyebrow at them.

Well, not at them—at Uncle Sam, who had skipped over to the grand piano and started playing the first few bars of the Battle Hymn of the Republic at a fast tempo.

“Hey guys,” said Uncle Sam after rising and bowing to imaginary applause. “I suggest you hit the floor.”

As Peggy and everyone else jumped to the floor and made themselves as flat as possible, Uncle Sam drew a handgun and aimed it at Lincoln. It was comically big—four feet long, with a barrel the size of a paper towel roll core. Surely this couldn’t be real.

“Goodbye, Honest Abe! You were always overrated anyways!”

He fired, and the sound was a roar even in the vast space of the Entrance Hall. She looked over to Lincoln, expecting to see him with a gaping hole in the middle of the chest. Instead, he still stood, holding his axe in front of him and two halves of an impossibly large bullet clanging to the floor.

“Come now, old man,” said Lincoln. “You’re not going to solve this through weapons.”

Uncle Sam threw his gun over his shoulder and rolled up his sleeves

“You’re goddamn right! Let’s do this the good old American way!”

Lincoln dropped his axe to the side with a clatter. Then he nodded, a stern expression on his face.

Roaring, the two men ran at each other. They drew back their right fists and managed to hit each other’s face at exactly the same time.

They both staggered.

First bout tied, thought Peggy.

Uncle Sam wiped the blood from his mouth and spat out a tooth. Lincoln adjusted his jaw with a cracking round that echoed into the vast space. 

Uncle Sam bowed his head and rushed Lincoln like an enraged buffalo, hitting him in the chest and then sending him flying overhead.

Lincoln landed on his feet, stepped forward two paces and picked up one of the massive marble-based chandeliers near the north wall. When Uncle Same charged at him again, he effortlessly swung the chandelier into Uncle Sam, sending him flying across the room.

Uncle Sam hit one of the marble columns separating the Entrance Hall from the Central Hall, breaking it in half. 

Picking himself up, he brushed the marble dust off his upper sleeves.

“I thought we were going hand-to-hand, you Dishonest Abe! Well, I can play dirty too!”

He picked a flag staff and hurled it at Lincoln like a javelin. Lincoln sidestepped it and it embedded itself in the wall behind him with a THUNK.

They roared and charged each other again. This time, they tried to punch the other in the chest, and that worked better—each groaned, but stood their ground and punched again.

The next few seconds were a flurry of punches and counterpunches. Peggy through she saw each man’s head snap backwards at fatal angles at least a few times. The twig-like snap of broken bones was near-constant. Blood sprayed around them.

Like dancers, they moved across the room, and the Loyalists on the floor were careful to stay away from them, rolling if necessary.

At some point, they got close to the grand piano. Lincoln grabbed Uncle Sam’s white goateed and repeatedly slammed his face into the keyboard, producing the first eight bars of America the Beautiful.

The fist-fight continued, the two fighters ignoring gross body injury and human stamina to swing at each other without pause. Then Lincoln hurled Uncle Sam away to hit the western wall of the Entrance Hall.

As Uncle Sam laid on the floor, Lincoln grabbed the official portrait of George W. Bush and smashed it over Uncle Sam’s head.

Uncle Sam falling to the floor unconscious, Lincoln stepped lightly across the room and retrieved his axe.

“Now, on to serious business.”

But before Lincoln could do anything, there was a loud BANG and the glass chandelier fell on him, sending him sprawling to the ground.

“Ha! Never count the USA as being down and out!” shouted Uncle Sam as he brandished his gun. “We are the cockroaches of creation—uniquely suited for survival!”

Lincoln shrugged off the chandelier with a steady clinking and staggered to his knees. He still had his axe in hand.

Taking advantage of his opponent’s daze, Uncle Sam shot off the top of the electric brass chandelier next to him, and broke off the long central mast.

“Well, Annoying Abe, I think it’s time for you to go away!”

Uncle Sam hurled the shaft at Lincoln and this time the President couldn’t escape it—the mast hit him squarely in the chest, embedding itself into his torso.

“Only a flesh wound,” said Lincoln. He threw the axe, but rather than go flying to Uncle Sam, the axe went straight into Homeland Security’s head, splitting it in two as it stuck into the floor.

“I believe it’s time to go,” said the president with a smirk.

He sank into the floor, leaving only the chandelier mast behind.

🏛️

Amazingly enough, waitstaff, maids and kitchen workers were now asleep, and it looked as if Harry was well on his way to dozing off. Having Delilah at his side probably helped. The slow purr of snoring wasn’t so bad when it came from nearly two handfuls of people at once.

Unfortunately, no such luck for Dave, Gabi and Sonia.

“I’m still wide awake and that’s not going to change,” said Dave.

Gabi looked up at him. She had pushed his chair next to him so that he could put his feet on it and she could curl up next to him. “Same here.”

“Not sleeping either,” said Sonia. “I’m not feeling jittery or anything, I’m just not feeling asleep.”

Harry’s soft breathing had become snoring, confirming that he was away to Slumberland for a while.

“I just feel as if I should be up and exploring this place,” said Dave.

“Nothing is stopping us,” said Gabi.

“Hey… I want that picture in the Oval Office.”

“I could shoot more footage without Harry telling us not to.”

“And I could ruffle through the drawers of the Resolute Desk,” said Sonia.

“Technically espionage,” said Gabi.

“I think we’re far beyond that,” said Dave.

“Shouldn’t we be worried about being hunted down?” said Sonia.

“Heh. What’s most likely to happen?” said Gabi.

Dave chuckled.

“What’s more likely to happen?” said Sonia with a puzzled frown.

“Something Dave often says when he wants to straighten things out. Discounting the outlandish scenarios that may or may not occur, what’s the most likely scenario? On most days, you get up, you work or enjoy your time off, you eat, you go to the washroom, you get back to sleep.”

“In this case,” said Dave, “What’s likely to happen is that the House or Lady Columbia are either waiting or busy settling scores with the Blunt admin. If they try to go after us, we’ve got an ex-president with an axe backing us up. We’re noncombatants.”

Sonia mulled it over.

“All right. I’ve always wanted to rummage through the West Wing.”

“Wasn’t that the title of an old TV show?”

“Not that old.”

🏛️

Miranda had done a lot of thinking while sitting down. So much so that when she had tried shifting in her chair, she realized that her blood-soaked clothes were now stuck to the piece of furniture.

Oh, she wasn’t that stuck. She just had to get up—she didn’t want to get up. Maybe rest her eyes a bit—it was very early morning, after all.

“Hey, toots, had a rough day?” said a man’s voice.

She opened up her eyes. There he was, standing a few feet ahead of her, dressed in old-fashioned hunter’s gear—complete with the round glasses. Stocky but not yet overweight like he was later in his presidency. Aside from Lincoln, the toughest man to ever assume the presidency—Teddy Roosevelt.

“Yeah, you could say that,” she said.

“Don’t worry too much about it. Some days are like that—you get up and can’t even imagine what’s going to happen before you get back to bed again.”

He smiled.

“What’s important is how you roll with it. Don’t let the day make you: Make your day.”

“Easy to say.”

“Sure, but are you so powerless? Say it with me—Define your objective…”

“…identify your obstacles, use your assets,” they said together.

One of her father’s favourite maxims, drilled so deeply into her mind that it had become a trans-generational family credo. At least before the Blunt administration had taught her that she was as powerless as anyone else in a country led by a raging egomaniac.

Which wasn’t the case any more, she had to tell herself.

“So, what’s your objective?”

She thought about it, smiled and nodded.

“Now we’re making progress. Can you identify your obstacles?”

She saw a steel door. She saw her empty hand. She saw people laughing at her.

“I believe so.”

“And what about your assets?”

She looked at her bandaged right hand, then around her. She was surrounded by corpses who would no longer be able to play any role in anything. 

“I’m alive.”

“Sounds like you’ve got everything you need.”

“Thanks Teddy.”

“The least I could do. Now get up and send’em to hell.”

 

 

 

Section 3
Under the House

 

 

Chapter 13 — DUCC Tales

The Deep Underground Command Center’s door was open, and Kean was there to greet the President’s corpse.

Peggy and the other men pushed a gurney from the elevator leading to the DUCC, with Blunt somewhat awkwardly stacked on top of it. His weight had made his corpse difficult to load, but they had managed it. The gurney showed a few signs of strain from the weight, but had held steady throughout the hundred-yard elevator ride down to the DUCC. Blood from the corpse was still dripping down the gurney, coating the wheels and leaving a trail.

Kean nodded without enthusiasm at the sight of the presidential cadaver.

“Why is the door propped open?” said Peggy.

“I don’t think it matters,” said Kean without enthusiasm.

“What else, now?”

Kean stepped back and let them see for themselves.

The DUCC had been designed soon after the Cold War’s arms race had established that nuclear weapons could destroy targets up to a hundred yards underground. The PEOC having been built at a paltry thirty-six yards down, its successor would be located three times as deep. But budget and technology issues had held back the construction of the new structure—how would it be possible to dig so deeply in a dense urban area and excavate so much rock without making it obvious that a new structure was being built? It had taken decades to resolve those issues, which meant that, by the time it was built during the Obama administration, the DUCC (not the official name, but the one that had stuck) would sport a few decades’ worth of other improvements.

Threat profiles, for instance, had been updated. Whereas the Cold War thinking was that the President would be immediately whisked off to a more secure command bunker in Virginia to lead the nation, lessons from 9/11 showed that the President would not, in fact, be able to escape the traffic snarls, crowded airspace and airborne threats likely to hang over Washington, DC in times of deliberate attacks. Hence the decision to stay in place.

Unlike the PEOC, which was, at best, a makeshift refuge not meant to be used for sustained periods of time, the DUCC was built to become a centre of government for months. It was a relatively spacious facility; it could comfortably host dozens of people, and it was plugged into the latest communication networks that the United States could afford, which was a lot.

The décor was far more interesting than the drab PEOC. Taking perhaps a few too many cues from Hollywood films, the space was dominated by glass partitions, computer screens, ergonomic chairs, work pods and one massive central display to show the crise du jour. Peggy knew that, out of sight in the Executive Wing, an Octagonal Office larger than the oval office had been built to accommodate the President. The bunker reached out in many directions—in addition to the Executive Wing, there was a data centre wing, a residential wing, a mess hall wing, a barracks wing for the military personnel stationed here, and even an entertainment wing with library, gym, and everything needed for people not to crack up if stuck here for months on end.

But décor was the furthest thing from her mind as she surveyed the bunker. The coppery fecal smell of death reached her first. Then they saw where it came from.

While the PEOC had been unattended and deserted, the DUCC had apparently been staffed. But no longer—strewn around the bunker were not just bodies, but pieces of bodies. A head here, an arm there. Sometimes a torso, or half a torso. All splashed in puddles of blood.

“No survivors. We had time to check. Gary unloaded another clip into a mannequin in the gym.”

“What did this?”

“Not natural causes, certainly. To the best we can tell without a medical professional…”

Yeah, it’s not as if the brain-damaged idiot in charge of Health would be able to help.

“…the bodies weren’t cut apart—they were torn apart.”

“And the bunker was locked down before you came in?”

“Locked and sealed. I had to use my codes to enter.”

She sighed. Everyone else around her looked queasy. This, to put it plainly, was not natural. Had Lincoln reached this deep, or was this what Lady Columbia had been doing during that time?

“This is not safe,” squeaked the Secretary of Health.

“This is not safer,” pointed out Peggy. “Anywhere else is just as vulnerable.”

She turned to the rest of the loyalists.

“But safe isn’t the point, right? The point is having access to the other bunker.”

🏛️

From behind the Resolute desk, Dave flashed a smile and a victory sign with his hands, recalling an old picture of a president doing exactly that.

At this point, he had done the serious picture, the cute picture, the silly picture and was now well into meme pictures.

Meanwhile, Sonia was diving into the drawers in the room—although, Blunt being Blunt, reading material was scarce.

“All right, all right,” said Dave to Gabi, “your turn to sit behind the desk.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Come on. We’ll never get another chance.”

“All right.”

He took out his phone while she sat down.

Dave snapped a few pictures to warm up. Then tried to direct her.

“All right, serious ma’am president.”

She scowled, took her chin pensively, furrowed her brows while looking at documents, took a pen and mimicked the classical working pose of CEOs. Dave snapped pictures at every highlight.

They were both tired, her hair was getting frazzled, her clothes were starting to accumulate the wear and tear of the day (no blood, thankfully) and still she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

As she cycled through poses, she got flirty: knowingly pushing her hair over her eyes, drawing a coy smile, and doing her cute “Are you trying to seduce me” thing.

Then she laughed and Dave made sure to take multiple shots of that.

Oh yeah, that picture was going in their office.

She had taken all the video footage she could stand of the room, so there wasn’t anything else to do.

They ended up sitting on the sofas in the middle of the room. Foot on the coffee table. Chilling in the Oval Office, as if it was an everyday thing.

“So, Secretary of my Heart,” said Dave, “How are you doing?”

“Kind of amazing,” said Gabi. “You would think that seeing an impeachment—”

“—Removal—,” threw in Sonia.

“—right, then a presidential death, symbols of America coming out of the wall and then shooting at each other would feel a lot more consequential. Instead, I feel like, eh, that happened. I’m living with it.”

“Now that it’s been a few hours, it’s amazing that it’s just one more thing.”

“We haven’t slept yet.”

“Yeah, let’s see how that feels once we’re left alone with our thoughts.”

Sonia grunted something between agreement and skepticism.

“You don’t feel like that?”

“Oh, hey, I don’t mean to intrude. Look, if you want to have some alone time in the Oval Office, I can go check out the library…”

“No, no.”

“Stick around, it’s more fun.”

“But something is bothering you.”

“Oh, nothing good,” said Sonia. “It’s because of this office. It’s just going to depress you.”

“Try us.”

“Yeah, we’re not doing badly at all. Considering the circumstances.”

“It’s just… look, there’s this video I’ve been toying with for months. I did the research, the script is written, and I’ve got most of the pieces waiting to be edited together. But I can’t bring myself to do it.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure anyone is willing to hear it. It’s by far the darkest thing I’ve done.”

“Oh wow.”

“I’m not even sure I want to put it into the world.”

“Sounds important,” said Dave, “and this is the office to talk about important things.”

“Ah right. Feel free to interrupt me at any time, though.”

She took a deep breath.

“This is what keeps me at night. It’s the thought, hardly original, that it’s all going to get worse forever from now on.”

“I’ve heard that before,” said Gabi.

“For good reason too—it’s a favourite refrain of environmentalists, conspiracy theorists, cult leaders and old people alike, although for different reasons. The eco-doomers see this as the ultimate hammer to nail down their arguments. The coocoolanders are pushing their doomed paranoia to the utmost global scale. The cult leaders use it to scare and control their followers. Meanwhile, every person of a certain age is convinced—or at least hoping—that the world will end with them.”

“So, you’re not any of those?”

“Environmentalist, yes, conspiracist not so much. Cult leader definitely not, and old person… well, I still have a few decades left. But it’s when I take a step backwards that I start to worry. The ecological message is definitely true—we can’t keep going like that. The planet will be just fine, but human society won’t be able to take it. Through pollution or extreme weather—the planet will get rid of its human infection.”

“Ouch.”

“There’s worse. If you take a step back to look at the capitalistic logic of expansion, you know there’s a limit to growth. Without a frontier to exploit, without somewhere to bring in new riches, we’re doomed to fight over diminishing resources. Strategically, this has already begun over the oil reserves of the Middle East—the first war of the twenty-first century wasn’t about terrorism; it was supposed to be about securing oil reserves at a favourable price. It didn’t work, but that was the attempt.”

“So, other resources.”

“Take steel, for instance. All of the easy-to-reach mineral deposits have been exploited. The US is recycling more steel than it produces because new production is unaffordable. You’ve noticed how inflation is going up, up, up…”

“Oh yeah.”

“…without anyone getting richer except for the already-rich. That’s a problem by itself, but on a deeper level, the unsustainable gains made by the United States during the Cold War until the 1990s were motivated by political power more than economics: The soft empire, the capitalistic exploitation of the Third World, the artificial boost of fighting the Soviets through government investments. We don’t have that anymore. Space exploration is not an option unless there are massive investments, and even then, it’s probably not much more than a sideshow. Our economy is getting more and more fragile—standards of living are regressing, and as the poorer countries are getting richer, they are gobbling up resources as well.”

She sighed.

“This has consequences. People are kinder when they get richer. If they’re not, they start blaming other people. We turn against each other. The world is now too complicated to understand by the average person—and when they’re whipped up by social media to be outraged all of the time, they start destroying institutions out of sheer fucking ignorance.”

“Sounds like you’re going to mention Blunt now.”

“Indeed I will. Not as this freak occurrence but as the manifestation of a much deeper phenomenon. American society—no, wait, let me rephrase that—western society has hit a wall and it doesn’t know it yet. Riches are limited and will be fought over. The pie of the pie going to everyone but the billionaires will diminish. People will get angrier. And when people get angry, they stop thinking. They look for simple answers. Blunt was inevitable. Blunt was an answer to a question that everyone was asking—not the right answer, certainly, but he was the answer that made more sense, that felt better. Blunt is what happens in a society that is just starting to notice that it’s declining. He offered fast dumb solutions that everyone thought they could understand. Of course, they all failed—kicking immigrants out, imposing tariffs without corresponding investments, getting a hard-on for hierarchical authority, dismantling oversight, and going after enemies are all incredibly moronic things to do and they only make things worse.”

“But then people will react to that and they will elect the opposite.”

“No, they won’t. Because, as things get worse, they will keep looking for someone to blame, and the Blunt voters are conditioned to hate the people that aren’t like them. There is no way out of this. You saw it with Blunt’s predecessor—a good guy, a smart guy, an efficient guy but he couldn’t make any progress. The decline has begun and we’re stuck in it. Look, it bothers me that we’re in this bubble cut off from the real world because things were getting goddamned scary before we were cut off—crashing economy, riots, talk of secession and civil war.”

She raised a finger to make a point.

“This is what a failing society looks like. And American society can fail. There is nothing special about us. Before long, food supplies will be interrupted and then the shit will hit the fan. Good countries like Canada may have a chance if they’re lucky, but weak-community societies like the United States will not. I’m talking about the union fracturing. As food becomes scarce, as the us-versus-them rhetoric comes with a side order of ‘Wouldn’t it be better if they weren’t there to eat our food?’”

“I’m starting to understand why you haven’t completed that video.”

“The thing is, this used to be crazy talk. But the evidence is all there that it’s not so crazy. There are precedents. There are warnings. There are plenty of signs that the decline has started already. Some people certainly know about it. Every country is increasing their military spending despite the globe being more peaceful than ever. The billionaires are building bunkers and licking their chops in anticipation of buying everything on the cheap. This is not a few people or some bad actors on the political stage—this is an entire society in its last stage of existence, thrashing about while it doesn’t understand that it’s already dead.”

“Maybe something will rise from—”

“Ha, no. My point about scarcer resources is that when society begins to grow hungry and starts shooting, the skills that go with making a modern society also go with it. You do not resume normal operations after the kind of modern civil war I’m talking about—the electricians and plumbers and civil engineers and teachers and construction workers and logistics experts that you need are gone. You don’t rebuild—the spiral continues to kill more and more people until what’s left are maybe medium-sized cities that have purged their numbers of undesirables. And then there are the billionaires ready to act like the warlords of that new feudalism. That’s if the US doesn’t suddenly decide to lob nukes everywhere as its final fuck you, which is not outside the realm of possibility considering the light show we saw earlier.”

She cackled.

“If the US falls, so will the world—not because the US is so important, but because so many investments are stuck here in this formerly stable environment that when it goes, economic contagion alone will bring down other countries, revive the same tensions, and expose the same fight for increasingly limited resources. We all could have made choices for a more sustainable society, but instead we’ll all burn.”

“What choices?”

“Too late,” she shook her head. “I’m talking education, sustainable living, space exploration as a frontier, and putting up rules to prevent billionaires. All of this was a choice, you understand. Other countries have chosen differently. There are no natural laws saying that a full third of all of the nation’s wealth must be owned by the top one percent. This was allowed to happen. This was deliberate. The levers of power were taken by the wealthy, and the only thing they love more than money is having even more money. Hmmm.”

She smiled.

“They’ll get their wish once society falls apart. At least for a few months, until they realize they can’t exist without everyone else and then their bodyguards take them out. Meanwhile, the masses will fight over scraps until we devolve back to tribal monkeys. We could have made it had the evil, the corrupt, and the insane gone away—but we’re stuck with them and now they’re destroying everything. So long human society, it was nice while it lasted.”

“Uh. That’s awfully pessimistic. We’ve always rebounded.”

“Except that there’s a proof we’re doomed. Scientific fact.”

“What?”

“Ever heard of Fermi’s Paradox?”

Both Gabi and Dave shook their heads.

“Enrico Fermi. One of the brightest men of the twentieth century. Worked on the Manhattan Project, among other things. At some point, he noticed that humans are relative latecomers to the universe—there’s been plenty of time for other extraterrestrial civilizations to grow old before us. Build gigantic things, flood the galaxy with radio signals and space ships. Reshape the stars to their liking. There should be evidence of millions of old civilizations around. Except that there aren’t. Hence his very simple, very spooky question—where are they?”

“Maybe they’re very quiet.”

“More likely that there’s something that makes civilizations self-destruct at some point. All of them. No exception. They call it the Great Filter, except that the filter seems to be a wall. For decades, everyone thought it was nuclear war. I think it’s simpler—just a mixture of greed and stupidity. As we’re about to find out for ourselves.”

The silence hung heavily over the Oval Office.

Gabi snuggled closer to Dave.

“You may want to keep that video for yourself,” said Gabi.

Dave looked at the golden bust of Blunt staring at them, as if it knew something.

FUCK TARIFFS. FUCK FASCISM. FUCK BLUNT, he remembered, smelling again that ghastly smell.  Maybe the guy had a point.  Maybe it was something worth dying for.

“If you can get back to Canada, my dears, please do so at the earliest opportunity. You’ll have better luck away from Toronto, though. And I won’t make any long-term predictions about your chances. But you have my sympathy.”

🏛️

“The American Dream is a scam,” shrugged Thursk.  “A fairytale sold to the world so that it welcomes its exploitation.”

He wasn’t complaining – he was boasting.

“This national fascination with democracy, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness – all fancy masquerade for what really mattered: Raw fucking power.”

They were in the DUCC’s central command center – a space dominated with gigantic screens that would normally be filled with high-resolution footage and information about the ongoing crisis, but were currently off-line, cut off from the outside world.

“Coopting people at all level so that everyone can be master and slave at the same time – subservient to the national interest, as long as you had a slightly bigger McMansion than the next guy in line.”

Not all of the DUCC occupants were there.  Kean was off to the Octagonal Office with the two remaining Secret Service agents, getting slightly too comfortable with the presidential area.

Which suited Peggy just fine.  One of the problems with Kean is that while he’d been told in general terms that Blunt’s continued success could be attributed to non-natural factors, he hadn’t been brought in the inner sanctum.  He had not visited the lowest level of the White House, hadn’t seen the sacrifices required, hadn’t already met Uncle Sam or his hornier manifestations.

Neither had the Secret Service agents, for that matter, but she didn’t expect any problems there – they were trained not to bat an eye unless it threatened the people they were assigned to protect.

But Kean would be a problem.  She couldn’t predict how he’d react.  The rest of them had had time to get over their initial shock – Hillier had always been the priest of their congregation, but the rest of them had been initiated at various moments.  They had all fallen in line, eventually.  Even Health, who was a moron even by the standards of the Blunt administration, had the good sense to be cowed once part of the inner sanctum.

“As long as you can convince the average American idiot than anyone not looking like him is out to take his place, they’re too busy fighting against each other to recognize who really pulls the strings and empties their pockets.”

She looked around.  Thursk was still monologuing, but it was to cover his lack of control.  They had, at least, recognized that their fate wasn’t entirely within their hands.  Peggy didn’t entirely agree with how that recognition had gone – keeping the inner doors of the DUCC open was just stupid, as was the Secret Service agent’s insistence that they should not serve themselves in the now-opened Armory.  But she supposed that as long as they remined calm, even the little stupid notes were tolerable.  At least she had gotten the outer door closed once again.

“Now we have an opportunity to take the mask off – the natural rulers of the country will emerge, and be recognized for what they are.”

“Are you going to keep Kean in line when he finds out exactly what we’ve been up to?” finally asked Peggy when Thursk took a breath.

“Kean is my creature,” said Thursk.  “He’ll figure it out quickly.”

“And you still want to go ahead with that plan?” she asked Hiller.

“We have Blunt,” said Hiller, “but we don’t have what else is needed.”

He looked at the group with his amphibian eyes.

“Unless one of you wants to volunteer, of course.”

“We’ll get you what we need.”

“How, though? With the axe-wielding monster roaming around?”

“We’ll figure something out.”

🏛️

“I’ve got another idea for a shot,” whispered Gabi as they made their way from the Oval Office.

They were trying hard not to make any noise. If there were other unfriendly people around, the stillness of the White House meant that sounds carried far. And the more they stayed quiet, the more they could hear someone else.

“What are you thinking?” asked Dave.

“Let’s go back to the State Dinner Room. I want to frame a wide shot with the smiling JFK standing watch over Blunt’s body, and zoom on Blunt’s open eye. Then we run it backwards in the edit.”

“Genius. Let’s do that.”

“I’m in,” said Sonia. 

They climbed up to the State Floor through the spiral staircase into the pantry, then went back to the room where so much had happened.

A trail of blood led from the elevator to where the President’s body used to be. The smell remained, but there was only a smeared brown pool of half-dried fluid.

“I guess they picked him up.”

“I’m pretty sure JFK didn’t have that pose when we were here last.”

“I think you’re right—hey.”

Sonia’s voice went down to an even fainter whisper.

“What?”

“Did you hear something?”

They stopped to listen. Nothing.

“Sorry, no.”

“I guess I’m imagining things.”

“Look at that, in the foyer.”

“The broken column?”

“Yeah, but is that a body?”

They crossed the Central Corridor and approached the cadaver.

“Ew,” said Sonia as she noticed the state of the corpse’s head and what was spilling out of it.

“This isn’t natural,” said Gabi.

Indeed, it wasn’t—the head had been split open by tremendous force, breaking the skull at an eerie angle.

“Something clearly happened here,” said Sonia, pointing at the smashed column, torn painting, and ripped-apart chandeliers. 

“I guess only the security cameras could tell the tale.”

“Do you think Harry could get us the tapes?” asked Gabi.

🏛️

Miranda wasn’t supposed to know where the DUCC entrance was located. People like her weren’t on the list of potential evacuees, nor were they given a tour of the facility in the first weeks of their tenure. She didn’t work at the White House—the bunker reserved for her was over at the Department of Agriculture, a dingy affair that had her contemplating nuclear annihilation with more serenity than being stuck starving for months under radioactive rubble.

But she could follow a trail. Going to the Red Room to pay her last disrespects to SecDef, she had hushed when she had heard the sounds of others. The paramedic who had bandaged her hand, the kakistocracy hag and that negro girl. She had no desire to talk to them or be seen by them. Fortunately, they’d moved toward the lobby, which Miranda had already seen, and she quickly moved to the pantry, following the trail of blood.

Quietly taking the spiral staircase down, she had re-emerged in the basement kitchen, where she picked up a handy little thing. From there, she could see more blood and then the tracks left by a gurney led her to an unmarked door.

Her access card worked—the door opened.

Then it was a matter of trying the elevator, which also worked.

She was not invited… but not forbidden, apparently.

The elevator rushed down, down, down.

What awaited her at the bottom was what she expected: a very large and imposing door, and an access control pad that refused her card. She unsuccessfully tapped a few times to get some attention from the people inside, then stepped back a few paces, waited and did not smile for the camera.

She didn’t have to wait long. 

“Identification, please,” said a voice.

“Really?” she said, pushing stiff strands of blood-clotted hair out of her face. “Miranda Drayton, Secretary of Agriculture, currently seventh in the line of presidential succession… unless you’ve got news that I don’t.”

The door opened and she entered as if she belonged.

She noticed but did not linger on the torn body parts inside the bunker. Making he way to the central command center, she focused her attention on the loyalists who looked at her. Kean wasn’t there.

Time to play her assets. Especially the expendable ones.

“Earlier, you said you were looking for our waitstaff. Well, I know where they are right now.”

She looked at them from behind a curtain of blood.

“I presume it’s to tip them well.”

🏛️

They came for them as they were in the Red Room.

Gabi had filmed the trail leading from Blunt’s pool of blood to the elevator, then the carnage and destruction in the Entrance Hall. They had managed to deduce that the person with the cleaved-open head was the Secretary of Homeland Security. They hadn’t touched anything for fear of leaving fingerprints, not even the torn portrait that was face down on the floor—although Sonia pointed out that Bush’s portrait was missing from the wall.

Then they had discovered the almost-bisected body in the Red Room.

“So that’s what the House did to keep us safe,” said Dave.

“Excessive, but I’m thankful,” said Gabi.

“Hmmm. Defence and Homeland Security both cleaved open,” said Sonia. “I wonder if it means something?”

A quick look through the Blue and the Green rooms while Gabi was filming further footage revealed no further bodies.

“Aren’t you feeling queasy filming this stuff?” asked Sonia.

Gabi shrugged. “I’ve seen lots of horror movies. And this may be very important later on. Historical record.”

Provided we’re allowed to go outside at some point, thought Dave.

“Freeze!” shouted a voice, then another, then another.

The Red Room had five exits, and three of them were blocked by men with guns—covered on all sides.

Dave recognized two of them as Secret Service agents, and the third as the wide-eyed Secretary of Health.

He froze.

He looked at Gabi, and she seemed to be taking it well—at least she was frozen, although he noticed the camera was still on.

He would have liked to run, but run where? The House was still under lockdown, and playing hide-and-seek with Secret Service agents who knew the place much better than he did was not an option. Then there was Gabi—it would be trivial for them to use her against him, and both trying to make a run for it would only increase the chances of it going badly. As dispiriting as it was, there wasn’t as other choice than to play nice and see what would happen. Surely Lady Columbia or the House would intervene before it was too late.

With a pang, he then thought about all the footage they had shot since the morning—would it be taken away from them?

Two more people entered the room and Dave saw that one of them went to tie Sonia’s hand behind her back—right before they did the same to him. Then Gabi.

“Come along nicely and the cuffs will be removed,” said one of the agents.

“Where are we going?” dared ask Dave.

He expected a jab in the ribs for talking back; instead, he got an interesting answer.

“Somewhere few people have ever seen.”

🏛️

This was getting serious, thought Peggy without joy.

Sure, Hiller’s plan was diabolical, but at least it gave them something to do while trying to avoid thinking about how they were trapped here and how two supernatural entities had explicitly declared war on them.

But now that the three outsiders had been captured, they would need to go through with it, and Peggy wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it.

All three civilians had been shoved in one of the boardrooms of the DUCC, clearly visible through the glass partitions and yet solidly locked up by a set of transparent doors designed to shut down securely.

Now it was about logistics and increasing the efficiency of the sacrifice, as directed by Hiller. How did he know that stuff? Peggy had shied away from wondering too much about that in the past, but it was now haunting her again.

“All three of them need to be down there,” said Hiller. “In fact, the more of us are there, the better it will be.”

He paused, then smiled at Peggy.

“If you’re terrified, please remain so.”

🏛️

“It is time to wake up, shepherd.”

Harry opened his eyes, feeling the scratchy sensation of waking up without enough sleep, then the warmth of Delilah pressed against him.

Then he saw Lady Columbia crouching in front of him.

She was still beautiful, but she didn’t look good. Her flawless hair was messy, her skin broken by small scratches and bruises. The dress was torn in spots, and there was dirt on it. Looking at her, he was sure that she momentarily glitched like a malfunctioning display.

“I am sorry to have been away,” she said, “but I have been busy elsewhere. Now I need you to wake up so you can play your role while I finish what I need to.”

“I’m awake.”

“No, but you will be soon. Once you are, you must go to the basement. You must enter the DUCC. You know where it is.”

“Why?”

“You need to go rescue your friends.”

Chapter 14 — The Heart of American Power

Dave was absolutely certain of one thing:  All men had elaborate fantasies of saving the day if attacked by thieves, hoodlums or terrorists. He himself invested time spent standing in line in banks, airports and grocery stores to imagine what heroics he would do to save friends, families and even strangers if ever they were attacked. He would sucker punch the nearest bad guy, take the guy’s gun, run to cover, slide on the floor, and pop a few shots while dual-wielding weapons in each fist. He’d use his rage to take out the remaining villains, punctuating every death with a quip, then shoot the ringleader in the face and deal with the applause and awards.

He’d once tried spinning off this as a comic monologue to Gabi and she had been polite enough to smile and nod. But their instant silent argument had been Oh, Dave, you’re the kindest person I know and I love you for it—but you wouldn’t be able to harm anyone. Besides, you’re not exactly in good shape nor have you shot guns more than a handful of times in your life. To that, he’d sputter something like Don’t underestimate the capabilities of a pissed-off nerd having grown up on action movies.

Even so, when the Secret Service agents had waved at them to walk down a corridor leading to the bunker’s Executive Wing, he hadn’t argued. What he was doing, while waiting for his opportunity, was studying the place, calculating the angles, and seeing the possibilities.

There were a few things of note. The Blunt Loyalists were dumb and sloppy—they kept open secure doors by propping them with makeshift shims so that they wouldn’t waste time opening doors with their keycards. Even the bunker’s front door had been propped open with a garbage can when they had entered—Dave figured that the torn-up body parts hastily pushed to the sides of the corridors were evidence enough that the door wasn’t going to keep them safe. 

Furthermore, there was a very interesting door marked ARMORY, and it was also kept open. These were not serious people—they took every opportunity to make lives easier on themselves, even if it meant sacrificing basic security.

But as Secret Service agents prodded gun barrels into them, they didn’t have much time for sightseeing. Nearly everyone in the bunker seemed to be going to the same place. They followed a trail left by the wheels of something that had rolled through the blood left by the torn bodies.

During their minutes locked in the glass-walled meeting room, Sonia and he had tried to understand why Lady Columbia or Abraham Lincoln weren’t storming the place.

“Well, Lady Columbia warned us that she was busy.  As for the House, Uncle Sam did say something about flytrap energy. The reason why they tell kids not to spring traps for fun is that these take a lot of energy for the plant, so they can’t do it all the time.  I’m thinking that the House may be like that – it can do supernatural things, but those take energy that has to be refilled.”

So how long was the cool-down period?  They were being marched down to parts unknown now.

The Executive Wing had the advantage of being laid out far more logically than the White House above—there was a long central corridor, with entrances to various sub-areas presumably staffed during the apocalypse. One of those entrances gave a glimpse into an office with a style reminiscent of the Oval Office.

“President Kean?” called out a Secret Service agent. “We’re ready to go down.”

“Coming.”

The former Vice-President did not look happy, but took his place in the small delegation heading to the end of the corridor, accompanied by his bodyguards from the Secret Service.

Near the end, the leader of the small group opened a door, which revealed a smaller corridor. If Dave hadn’t lost his bearings, and he was usually pretty good at that, they were heading west-south-west, more or less heading to the middle of where the Executive Residence stood above them.

After another, much-older door, stairs led down a few stories, interrupted by a few landings. No elevators?

Blotches of red on the floor suggested that something heavy and bloody had been dragged down.

They climbed down, periodically turning. Two, three floors. How deep were they now?

He tried touching Gabi’s hands, but the zip-ties behind their backs were still constraining them. At least they made eye contact and there were no micro-arguments there—just affirmation of support.

Dave noticed that the place was getting older the deeper they went. Cobwebs, chipped paint, and a few streaks of humidity running down the walls. Dust cracking under their shoes. The decrepit ventilation systems made more noise. There was little maintenance here—how many people were authorized to come here, and how many had actually done so?

What was this place? This couldn’t have been built at the same time as the DUCC.

Eventually, they reached a room. It was the size of a large meeting room—fifteen yards by fifteen—but there were no tables and no chairs.

Just an altar in the middle of the room and strange markings on the floor, inlaid within the polished concrete. There were three large holes in the ceiling suggesting tunnels leading up.

He did not recognize the floor markings, but his scalp nonetheless prickled in fear. The design was clearly centred on the altar—markings pointed to it, while also clearly establishing a perimeter around it. The lines radiated from the middle, then stopped in a circular pattern that did not reach the walls. A few cabinets and lockers were in the corners outside the circle. Another heavy steel door was at the back of the room.  The room’s lights illuminated its middle, leaving the walls in shadow.

But the most significant element of the room was the altar—a solid slab of dark wood resting on a massive metal base.

It had a body on it.

Blunt—having been placed on his back, eyes closed and throat still cut wide open.

Despite his bulk, the dead president’s corpse did not occupy the full width of the altar. There was still enough place for another body next to it.

“KNEEL!” shouted the leader of their procession—a strange gnome-like man who looked out of place among so many politicians and Secret Service agents.

“What is this place?” asked Sonia, voicing what Dave was also thinking.

“It’s a place that feeds on fear,” said the detestable man, whom Dave was increasingly thinking of as a demented priest.

🏛️

Harry entered the DUCC loaded for bear. Somewhat.

He was holding a handgun—something that his staff kept in their metal shop because the Secret Service had wanted an extra weapon stored there, and Harry usually ignored. But he needed something in his fist before going to charge into a hostile space.

He hadn’t been sure that his access card would work, but doors had either gladly accepted his ID, or been propped open. 

Alas—where was everyone? He saw the pieces of bodies on the floor and panicked for a moment, thinking he had been too late. But then he saw that every torn body wore the remnants of a military uniform.

Where were Dave and the others?

He looked down and saw traces left by the wheels of a cart—going through the bloodied remains and leading somewhere. He followed.

Before he got too far into the DUCC, something at the periphery of his eye caught his attention.

Another open door.

Armory.

🏛️

Peggy did not want to be here or to remember what they had done. She did not want to be reminded of the purpose of this place or the conscious choices they had made.

She did not want to learn more.

But Hiller was right: this place ran on fear, and simply explaining the purpose of this place was nightmare fuel.

“This place started out as a contingency plan,” started Hiller. “Something painstakingly built at the height of the Cold War, when paranoia ran high that the White House could be seized by invaders. Generals with long memories of rolling into Rome, Berlin, Tokyo and doing whatever they wanted there, running up the American flag where it did not belong. People who had toured Hitler’s bunker while noting its deficiencies. People who were there during the Trinity test in Alamogordo.”

Hiller showed the room with his arms.

“It cost a billion dollars to build. A very simple bunker, a hundred and fifty yards down. Deep enough that no surface radiation detector would ever get a whiff of what was being held here.”

He tapped the metal base of the altar.

“The paranoid-in-chief got worried that, should Washington fall into the wrong hands, the White House would be invaded, occupied, sacked, possibly burned again, like in 1814. So, they installed a fail-safe. Project IMMACULATE SWEEP. A fifteen-megaton hydrogen bomb, with its output directed, here, there, and there”

He pointed at the open holes in the ceiling.

“Each one of those tunnels being a loaded atomic barrel aimed at the Executive Residence, West Wing, and East Wing, with a split to the PEOC. Capped with concrete and conventional explosives for that additional kick. If Washington was overrun, the bomb was designed to stop any opponents from getting their hands on the symbols of America. Only a few people can authorize its detonation from here or the terminals above—the Secretary of Homeland Security, SecDef, the Vice President and the President. All thanks to a handy little card in their wallets.”

“Are you planning to detonate a nuclear bomb?”

“Oh, heavens no. This is just setting the stage for why this room exists, and why its location is just perfect for other purposes. This is far from the first time many of us have been here. Isn’t that right? Care to explain, Peggy?”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“Look at that,” said Hiller. “She’s part of it and even she’s scared of what’s coming next.”

He laughed, and it did not sound mirthful.

“The irony being that I don’t have to explain as much to any of you, since you witnessed the whole incident upstairs. Uncle Sam exchanging shots with that bitch Columbia? Spectacular stuff, but we’ve known for years that there were forces greater than our understanding with the potential to help us. We’ve met Uncle Sam before, sometimes under different guises.  Of course, gods ask for a price.”

“Human sacrifice,” said Sonia flatly.

Hiller stopped, annoyed at having his revelation spoiled early.

“Of course, the kakistocracy cunt has to chip in,” he spat. “Yes, human sacrifice. Meddling in human affairs doesn’t come cheap. You need to prove your seriousness. Gods love blood. It’s been a currency for longer than money, longer than barter. It’s always been the ultimate taboo. Even more so now, which makes it even more valuable. Spill enough blood, and the gods will smile upon you. They will remove every obstacle in your way.”

Dave noticed that the blood-splattered Miranda had started to shake slightly.  So did Kean and, to a lesser extent, the Secret Service guys.

Then Sonia did something that Peggy did not expect: she started to laugh.

“Of course,” she said. “Who else wins two elections on razor-sharp margins? Who else survives two impeachments and one assassination attempt? Who else directs a coup d’état and doesn’t get any consequences for his acts? Who else survives credible accusations or convictions of rape, pedophilia, fraud and embezzlement?”

Hiller smiled and nodded, warming to an appreciative audience.

“The sheer unlikeliness of Blunt’s rise to power,” said Sonia. “All the missed opportunities to stop him, all the long shots that became true. That wasn’t natural.”

“And that’s just what you noticed. Oh, we cultivated a field that was already seeded and ready to grow. Voters across America hungered for someone like Blunt. But whenever there’s a crisis, we ask the gods for help. Sacrifices are made. Sometimes we add additional insurance—thanks to our billionaire friends, we shuffled enough bits to win the last two elections. The wonders of technology, with a little bit of outside help.”

The room started spinning slightly around Dave, snapping back in place then spinning again. He felt bile churning in his stomach. They were definitely not getting out of this room alive with this information.

“You manipulated the midterms?”

“Not just the midterms. From polling to vote transmission. When you’ve got the algorithms and the fibre lines, flip enough bits here and there and the elections are yours. There aren’t even any paper ballots to prove us wrong.”

“It all… makes… sense,” said Sonia with difficulty.

“When bit-twiddling wasn’t enough, we had the gods on our side. A… judicious number of people were brought here and never came out—well, except through that incinerator door at the back. The gods have their preference, though. You can’t just take a homeless person off the street. High rank doesn’t matter much. What works much better is innocence. Or opposition. And given the scale of the favour we have to ask now, only the best will do.”

He nodded to Treasury and Commerce.

“Put her on the table.”

“What?” said Sonia. And then, as they manhandled her: “NO! WAIT, NO!”

She struggled, shouted, and weakly tried to get out of their hold, but she was an older, out-of-shape woman against two much stronger men, and she had her hands tied behind her back.

“LET ME GO! NOT LIKE THIS! NOT FOR THAT!”

Hiller had done this many times before, and calmly set plastic restraints in the recessed hooks inside the table. It was an awkward, but methodical process—she was put on the table, and even struggling and kicking it wasn’t hard to loop the plastic restraints around her ankle and fasten the other side to the table. Then the neck. By the time they cut off the zip tie at her back, she wasn’t able to offer much more than sobbing and verbal resistance.

“YOU FUCKING MONSTERS! YOU WILL FUCKING BURN IN HELL FOR THIS! I WILL MAKE SURE OF IT!”

At least she wasn’t going gently into the night—but so had many more previous sacrifices. Often in other languages—much of them coming from immigrant detention centres. When the gods had expressed their preference for American-born sacrifices, they had arranged for the disappearance of American spies through rendition programs—something covered up by Blunt’s compromise of many intelligence networks. Lately, ICE had rounded up enough American citizens that it was easy for a few of them to disappear into the system.

As she was strapped to the altar, Hiller drew his sacrificial knife—long and strong enough to stab past a thoracic cage. He raised the blade.

Then there was a deafening gunshot.

Peggy looked at the door, and there was that fucking nigger—the chief engineer they’d promoted despite her strong opposition.

He had slipped in undetected during the commotion and was now standing behind Keen with a combat shotgun pointed at the man’s head. Two assault rifles were strapped across his chest. He threw a knife on the floor near the black bitch and her boyfriend.

“Dave, Gabi, cut your ties. No one else moves or Kean gets decapitated.”

“Oh, thank God!” said Sonia, her voice hoarse.

“Now, everyone with a White House pass will move toward the back wall. Gently, gently, there’s no need for anyone to die here if we all stay smart. Not you, Kean, stay where you are.”

Peggy stepped back, not unhappily.

Hiller didn’t.

Creatively using the knife, the two civilians managed to cut their ties off.

“Dave, go free Sonia from the table.”

The young man advanced, but Hiller interrupted.

“You forget one thing! Kean is expendable.”

Then, without a fuss, he plunged the knife into the woman’s chest and twisted.

The woman on the table screamed as much as she could while the blood erupted from her chest. Which wasn’t long.

As Hiller had bet, the engineer didn’t have then guts to shoot Kean—instead, he hesitated and kicked the man in the back, sending him sprawling. 

Considering how the situation had turned, the engineer and the two civilians quickly retreated toward the door, pulling it closed behind them.

Gary shot a few ineffectual shots at the door, not even denting it.

🏛️

“Go! GO!” said Harry as he heard the door being stuck by bullets.

He did not need to tell them—Dave and Gabrielle were fast going up the stairs with the energy of animals running for their lives, and Harry followed not far behind. How much time did they have until they gave chase? 

But fuck! He hadn’t been fast enough, lucky enough, or smart enough to save Sonia. No matter his heroics in barging into the room, it had all been for fuck-all nothing.

🏛️

“Gary! Stuart! I want them back, or dead!” shouted Kean.

As the two Secret Service men left, Miranda scanned the room, her mind still reeling from what she’d just learned. She wasn’t a part of the core cabinet like the others here. They, on the other hand, were quite comfortable with it all. Even Thursk had clearly been here before. 

“Give the Secret Service a few minutes to resolve the problem,” suggested Hiller. “We’ll go back to the bunker then. In the meantime, I have a few things to do.”

Now that the blood had stopped flowing so freely from the dead woman’s chest, Hiller took a bolt cutter from underneath the altar and snipped open the ribs of the thoracic cage. With practised, almost rote moves, he removed the bones protecting the heart.

Then, going back to his knife, he sliced arteries. More blood flowed out of the woman’s corpse.

He screaming had been such that her mouth was still open and her face stared at the central hole in the ceiling.

Then he removed the heart of the woman. Leaving a hole in her chest, he held the blood-slick organ in his hands and circled the altar.

Mumbling incantations, he rubbed the heart over Blunt’s face, squeezing the blood out so that it dripped onto his sliced throat. Soon, there was no difference between the new blood and what had flowed out of Blunt.

“Now what?” asked Kean, who had physically gotten up but whose humiliation would take longer to recover.

“We wait,” said Hiller. “As we must. But we can do so upstairs, more comfortably. We’ve asked for much. It will take time.  We will know when it’s done.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Kean.

Miranda understood what he meant. In the quiet of the sacrificial chamber, what they had done felt sordid, dirty and ugly. There were no fashionable robes for the participants, no orchestra choirs, no dramatic camera angles—just desperate people meddling with forces they barely understood and hoping their supplication would be noticed.

The group nodded, along with that shrew of a chief of staff—who was far less outspoken now.

Soon enough, all made toward the door as if ashamed of what happened here. 

Miranda started by following them, then saw to her delight that nobody leaving cared about her, and that Thursk was staying behind, close to the altar.

Her heart thudded as she understood that her plans were coming to fruition. One of them. Not the way she had envisioned it, but it was nonetheless an opportunity. 

Thursk still looking at the altar, she moved toward the shadowy corner of the room, where cabinets offered a hiding place.

The door closed by itself with a click. Thursk looked back, failed to notice her, and prostrated himself in front of the altar.

“Your will is done, dark lord.”

Uncle Sam crawled out of the ceiling’s central tunnel like a spider, then squatted over the altar. Miranda was suddenly frozen by fear.

“Yup, it certainly is, buckaroo. Wild ride of a night, but I like the way it’s heading.”

Thursk rose to the altar and put his hands on Blunt’s body, his gaze still averted downward.

While the trillionaire was staring at the floor, Uncle Sam made eye contact with Miranda, knowing exactly where she was and giving her the impression that he was very much aware of her plans.

He nodded with a grin, giving her permission to go through with it.

“You’ve played your part well,” said Uncle Sam. “Motivated those on the fence, got everyone lined up, pushed the reluctant across the finish line. But when there’s a better plan, you take it. And what’s in store now is far, far better than we could have hoped for with a simple twenty-fifth.”

Miranda had the impression he was covering up the sound of her footsteps.

“You still have something to do. Maybe your biggest contribution. The favour you’re asking is a big one.”

With her good hand, Miranda pulled the handy little thing he had taken in the kitchen: a medium-sized knife with a strong handle—just the kind of thing that could fit in her jacket while still being effective for her intended purpose.

The pills she had taken a few minutes ago were kicking in. The pain meant nothing anymore. Her left-hand fingers were as good as new.

“Anything for you, my lord.”

“Hey, nothing big. I’m just asking you—. “

She slammed into his body with her full weight, surprising him. Then she put the knife against his throat, the cold professionally sharpened steel nicking his flesh.

“—to pay your final respects.”

“Everybody wins,” she hissed in his ear. “You sacrifice yourself for a cause you believe in, and I free myself from your shackles.”

She felt Uncle Sam’s approving gaze.

Thursk’s breath was fast and so were his words.

“You can’t do this!” he said. “I tell the president what to do! I tell you what to do! I’m ANTLER. I’m a billionaire!”

“This close to hell, your billions mean nothing.”

She pulled and sliced.

🏛️

Harry ran through the DUCC’s Executive Wing, nearing the central area where they could dart for the exit. Dave and Gabrielle were sprinting ahead of him, and he wasn’t mad about it—let them fly and leave his old ass behind; that was only fair.

But rather than take the left path to the exit, they took the right one deeper into the DUCC.

“Dave!” he managed to wheeze out.

“We’re not leaving without our footage!”

You morons, thought Harry.

Well, tough luck. He wasn’t going to wait for them.

Harry turned toward the exit, but didn’t take more than two or three steps in that direction before he stopped.

Go rescue your friends, had said Lady Columbia.

Gaaaah. 

Sure, fine.

He dropped by a partition and waited. He wasn’t going to follow them deeper into that stupid sideshow, but he still could be of use.

Moments later, he heard what he expected. Footsteps. The two Secret Service agents.

He took the rifle, aimed it beyond the corner and blindly emptied a clip in their direction.

He hoped he hadn’t hit them. Gary was an idiot, but Stu wasn’t such a bad guy.

No, wait, they had stood idly while Sonia had been killed.

Fuck it. ACAB.

He ejected the magazine, jammed a new one into the rifle and fired blindly again, this time hoping to hit something.

A few confused noises from far back told him that he’d achieved at least his first purpose of holding them back.

Now where had those idiots gone?

🏛️

“They took our stuff here!” said Gabi. “I’m sure of it!”

Dave looked at the tables in the meeting rooms. Through the glass partitions, they had spotted the Secret Service agents bringing their cameras and phones around here, sure, but where exactly?

At the sound of gunfire, he exchanged stares with Gabi. She shook her head.

Okay, onward.

He looked at another office, and there they were—cameras, microphones, phones.

“Yes!” said Gabi, entering the room and quickly pocketing her items.

Dave did the same and activated the recorder just in case.

He saw Gabi activate Sonia’s microphone and attach the label mike to her shirt.

Okay, good. This had been stupid, but, at the same time, he felt better about it. It wasn’t about the devices—it was about what was on the devices: their efforts throughout the day and the extraordinary things they had captured.

Now, to escape.

Unfortunately, they were away from the central corridor—the makeshift interrogation rooms had been off to the side, and Dave wasn’t too sure of the quickest way out.

“There they are!” shouted a man.

Dave looked—it was either Commerce or Treasury, and while they didn’t have weapons, they could call those who did. They had to get away fast. They ducked into a conference room.

Dave had a plan. A bad, somewhat useless plan, but one nonetheless.

As the first man entered their conference room, he fired his gun at the sprinkler on the ceiling.

His intention was to trigger the automatic water release. From his knowledge of building codes, Dave knew how most of those things worked. Sprinkler systems were essentially, usually, just heat-sensitive fusible links holding back water stored under pressure in pipes above. Either heat the small glass fragment or snap it off with a gunshot—water would pour out. Then they’d use the splashy confusion to make their escape.

But Dave wasn’t up to the building codes used in a state-of-the-art no-expenses-spared bunker. As the bunker builders’ thinking went—a fire in an underground area with limited supplies during a months-long seclusion wasn’t something to douse in precious water. It was something to contain, fast.

Accordingly, a small amount of water was released into the room, but the far more impactful measure was to trigger a brute-force shutdown of the reinforced glass door—with the avowed goal of sealing the room into its little airtight atmosphere so that the fire burned out.

The glass door, in closing violently, slammed into Commerce and sent him into the door frame. The impact was brutal—like being hit by a truck… a very narrow truck.

Commerce was nearly but not entirely bisected. The piston-powered force of the closing door was enough to compress his chest, cracking and breaking and splitting apart the bones of his thoracic cage. Strong enough to compress a cross-section of what was normally a foot-deep torso into less than six inches. Strong enough to crack his skull, shatter his jaw and snap his glasses in two.

Dave barely had time to see what had happened, but the consequence was clear—as the glass door kept Commerce upright, the mangled corpse of the secretary was enough to keep the reinforced door from hermetically closing.

Which saved Dave and Gabi’s life because he didn’t see how else he would have escaped a hermetically sealed room with bulletproof glass.

“Did you mean to do that?” asked Gabi.

“You know I did, baby.”

She wasn’t fooled, but her smirk showed that she appreciated the posturing.

Gabi didn’t hesitate any further—she went to the door, snapped off a shot to scare Treasury away and pulled open the door.

The near-split body of Commerce fell to the floor, bleeding from many unusual places.

“Tariffs divide everyone apart,” spat Gabi while stepping on the man’s mangled body.

Hey, no fair. I’m supposed to do the quipping here, thought Dave.

But he followed. After picking up Commerce’s keycard, just in case.

Chapter 15 — Darkest Before Dawn

Peggy wasn’t willing to hunt down the escaping civilians—that was the Secret Service agents’ jobs… and, apparently, those two lunkheads from Treasury and Commerce.

Kean wasn’t going to do that either—he aimed straight for the Octagonal Office. Peggy followed him, and saw that he was already pouring himself a very tall glass of whatever was available from the liquor cabinet. Blunt didn’t drink, but the bunker designers knew to provide supplies for those who did.

Hiller followed into the room, along with the AG, SecState and Health. 

Their little conspiracy, up against Kean.

The former and perhaps future Vice President, shaking from nerves, drank half the glass in one gulp. 

“You installed a motherfucking sacrificial chamber under the White House?” he said to Hiller.

“I didn’t see you complaining on inauguration day.”

“Human sacrifices!” said Kean, thumping Hiller in the chest.

The smaller man stood his ground.

“You better get on the program, butt-boy. Now that you know the price paid.”

“Or what?” said Kean while stabbing Miller on the chest with his index and forefinger. “OR WHAT?”

“Don’t get delusions of competence. You’re only here because ANTLER demanded it.”

Kean drew back.

“There are no innocents here,” said Hiller, to many resigned nods. “So many ways we should have lost.  No billionaires; we would have lost the election. No sweet deals with Russia; we would have lost the election. No owning the media; we would have lost the election. No sacrifices; we would have lost the election. Not to mention the endless fucking stream of little scandals that would have brought down any other candidate but just magically went away all the time. Don’t play the offended little bitch.”

Peggy smirked at Hiller’s put-down.

“Now you’re scared because Blunt is coming back. Well, get used to it. Bow down, you white trash nigger, because the big man’s not going to be in a forgiving mood. You know what he tried to do with his previous Vice-President, don’t you? Now imagine what he can do away from everyone’s eyes.”

“He’s old and feeble.”

“Just you wait. He’s going to wipe you off like the piece of shit that you are!”

Hiller slapped Kean.

Kean punched Hiller, then smashed the glass into his face.

“Whoa, whoa!”

Peggy and the others reached out to separate the two men before it got worse. Kean looked ready to kill, but Miller was the worse for wear with a few cuts on his temple and upper cheek. The smaller man grinned as blood started streaming down his face.

“Imagine what will happen when I show these cuts to the boss. He already despises you. Imagine after that twenty-fifth shit you just pulled? Maybe you should call that whore Columbia and beg for mercy… or at least for a quicker death than what Blunt will offer you.”

🏛️

Harry sighed in relief as he saw Dave and Gabrielle make their way back to him. His gunshots had apparently cowed the Secret Service long enough, because soon they were off and running toward the DUCC exit.

“You got what you were looking for?”

“Yeah, we got lucky,” said Dave.

Soon enough, they were pushing open the steel door of the DUCC, and frantically pressing the elevator button.

Fortunately, the door opened to let them in, and nothing prevented them from closing and the elevator from bringing them up to the surface.

Harry exhaled and looked at his watch. It was just past five. At this time of the year, the sun rose around seven AM. That gave them two hours, assuming the gods were serious about holding the House locked for the night. 

“We have to go wake up the rest so that we’re ready to go when morning arrives,” he said.

Dave and Gabi didn’t look all that keen on that. They had one of those mutual stares in which they seemed to discuss a lot. And Harry knew that he was excluded.

“You can do that, Harry,” said Dave. “I think we’ll just find a corner to rest. And think of Sonia.”

Gabi nodded.

Harry let it go. He wasn’t good at reading people, but he could take a hint.

“The library’s close by. I’ll take the stairs up while you get in there and close the door. There’s a lock, but it’s more an inconvenience than anything worth relying upon.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll knock a shave and a haircut, two bits so you know it’s me.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

The elevator door opened, and he left them to do their thing.

🏛️

The White House Library was originally a laundry room and a storage space that had been converted into a library in the late 1920s, stocking up books of interest to presidents and White House staffers. The collection was clearly for show, but it made a great backdrop—nearly three thousand books covering every side of the room in recessed custom-built bookcases. The room had a few sofas, a fireplace, and a door leading to a washroom. Dave immediately felt better after locking the door behind him.

But he and Gabi didn’t look around. As soon as she heard the click of the locked door, she embraced him.

“Oh, Gabi, I was so scared—.”

“Me too, Dave. Me too. I saw myself pulled on that table—.”

“-that psycho stabbing us—.”

“-blood flowing out—.”

“-Poor Sonia—”

“-so glad you’re safe—.”

“-they’ll pay for this, but now I want you—.”

They kissed. Again. Again. Again.

Wordlessly, they held their embrace and moved toward the library’s sofa. She unbuttoned his pants and he unbuttoned hers. He pulled her to him as he sat down. She straddled him and brought his face close to her chest.

“Yes. Yes!”

She wiggled and he entered her. It was a relief and a celebration of being alive. In between kissing, they looked into each other’s eyes and there were no micro-arguments—only comfort and love. In perfect agreement, they moved as one, their hands holding each other close.

“I’m about to—.”

“Me too—.”

They reached their climax at the same time, shuddering and erupting at once as they looked in each other’s eyes. Their grip on the other was so strong that they left bruises. After too short of an eternity, she let herself fall on him. He smelled her hair and closed his eyes.

Their breathing went back to normal, but they didn’t pull away. Not yet. Maybe not forever.

“I’m sorry, Gabi.”

“For what?”

“For dragging us into this. For letting my pride—look, you’re right, okay. When we get out of here, and we will, we’re ending our channel. We’re taking a job, we’re buying a house, we’re starting a family. I’ll burn my American passport if you want me to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely. I haven’t always listened to you and I should have. Let’s have kids and settle down. It’s time. We’re done with this.”

“I have a confession, Dave.”

“What?”

She saw the look in his eyes and bit her lip.

“I have… I’ve stopped taking the pill a few weeks ago. I’m sorry, it’s wrong, it’s—.”

“Shh. It’s okay. I’m with you. You were right, and it took me too long to figure it out. I’ve got a confession too.”

He saw the flicker of panic in her eyes.

“It’s not about you. It’s a secret I’ve been holding for too long.”

The way they were intertwined, it wasn’t possible to lie to each other.

“The reason I’ve been hunting for ghosts… Look, until tonight, I wanted to believe in the supernatural. I wanted to discover proof of hauntings from beyond the grave. I had this friend—Mike—I may have told you—”

“The one you made your first videos with?”

“Yeah, my buddy Mike. He… he killed himself. No explanation, just there one day and gone the next. I…”

The lump in his throat reminding him why he never spoke about it.

“I always thought I’d find a way to talk to him. To ask him why. Just, you know, shoot the shit for five minutes. And hit him hard in the face for leaving me like that.”

He sobbed a few times.

“It’s okay, Dave,” she said. “We all learned a lot tonight.”

“I’m never letting you go from now on,” he said.

“I’m counting on it,” she said.

After that, they said nothing else until they fell asleep.

🏛️

“Hey, Delilah,” said Harry.

She opened her eyes, looked at him, smiled, then scowled as she looked around the room.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “We’re still trapped here, it’s not a nightmare and we’re stuck with what we’ve seen. But I think it’s coming to an end.”

He showed her the time.

“Not long before dawn. We should all be awake and ready in case the doors open.”

“Did anything happen why we were asleep?”

“Yeah, but you’re not going to believe this.”

🏛️

Miranda scoffed.

Five minutes of waiting and still nothing. Blunt was still his bloated, fecal-smelling, cut-throat self. No resurrection, no fancy special effects, and no signs of undead life. Uncle Sam had crawled back into the holes in the ceiling, and Miranda was left standing in a room with three corpses and a nuclear bomb.

What psychopathic clowns they all were—expecting resurrection from faux-cultist killings.

She turned her back and went back to the DUCC. 

She wasn’t done. Not yet. In her mind, she saw a sequence of events that would cleanse them all. There were a few tough steps along the way, but they would be worth it.

Her hand started throbbing again, so she stopped her climb up the stairs (not yet out of breath—that gym training was proving its worth) and popped a few more painkillers. Sure, she was probably past some kind of dangerous-for-the-liver dose, but she supposed it didn’t matter all that much now. 

Furthermore, she needed a head untroubled by pain for what was coming next.

She resumed her climb up and eventually emerged into the Executive Wing corridor. She avoided the Octagonal Office. It wasn’t time yet.

She was looking for something else. She saw the two Secret Service agents in the medical bay—Stu was bandaging Gary’s side as the other man kept complaining about the chances of being hit by a ricochet.

She saw a half-open door in the cluster of executive offices and saw the remnants of Commerce’s crushed corpse in the doorway.

Now that was more like it.

She searched his pockets for a keycard and found nothing.

Curious. But there were other options.

She heard a sniffed whimper and got up. Two doors down, Treasury was resting against the door frame, having some kind of breakdown.

Weak, she thought.

He seemed to pick himself up as she approached.

“You shouldn’t be here—,” he started.

Using her bandaged hand, she struck him across the face. It didn’t hurt—it felt great.

Bursting into sobs, he fell to the floor, whimpered a few “no, no, no,” curled in a ball and sobbed in sheer naked fear.

A thrill went through her. Was this what she had been capable of all this time? Reducing a man of such power to such cowardly behaviour, just because she wanted it?

He tried to tell her something, but she didn’t care.

Instead, she cut open his throat.

She was getting good at this.

🏛️

“Hey, Dave! Missed me?”

Dave opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep on one of the chairs. Gabi was curled up on the sofa.

He frowned. That wasn’t how they had fallen asleep. At least he didn’t think so.

But he had a bigger problem: Uncle Sam, standing in front of him.

“You had yourself a fuck and a nap! Right here in the library! My buddy!”

Uncle Sam went for a high-five, but ended up slapping Dave on the forehead instead and sighed.

“Modern so-called men. Such pussies.”

“What do you want?” asked Dave. Might as well get to the point.

“Hey, friend, I just wanted a little chat. While your little miss is asleep, I thought we could, you, know, have a few brewskies and talk dude-to-dude.”

“I don’t think we have much in common.”

“Is that so? Well, I suppose you’re no one’s idea of a macho guy like me. Barely ever got into fights. Can’t hunt, fish, ride or shoot for shit. Make your living propped up by the talents of your wife. You’re kind of a soyboy little bitch, aren’t you?”

“Is this insult central, or do you have a point?”

“Oh, ho-ho! You’re finally showing some spine. Not much of it, of course, and you already know none of this is real.”

“So, you’re my subconscious?”

“Would your subconscious know that buddy friend Mike was tripping balls when his girlfriend—whom you knew nothing about because he never told you—kicked his ass to the curb? Would it know that Mike went into a manic spiral, downed a bottle of pills and ended up choking on his own vomit? Or have you been lying to yourself that long?”

Dave stayed silent, taking this in.

“No,” finally said Dave. “His parents said—.”

“Yeah, well, his parents were trying to be nice. Coddled you too much, if you ask me.”

“Can he—.”

“Stop it, Dave. Your friend is gone. Decomposed. He will never come back.  Unless you act quick, you can’t bring back dead people. I could give you Mike, but he’d be me in disguise.”

Uncle Sam crouched down to Dave’s eye-level.

“I’m many unpleasant things, Dave. I’m an asshole. I’m a misogynist, racist, fascist, capitalist and everything else this country has made me be. But I’m not a bullshitter. Straight talk, all right?”

“And what’s your message?”

“My message is simple, Dave. You can be greater than all of this. Better than all you are right now. Something is happening right now.  You help me out in smacking that Columbia harlot out of here, and you can get anything you want. Penthouse in Manhattan. Unlimited bank account. Fans, fame, fortune. All the girls you want the moment you don’t stick with yours—Gabrielle’s cute for a black one, I get what you see in her. Until you tire of her.”

“Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth.”

“Or what? Come on, Dave. After tonight, you can’t go back to reassuring widows that their basements aren’t haunted. You said you’d settle down, get a corporate job and raise kids in the suburbs? Please, so much bullshit.”

“I mean it.”

“Anyone means it when they’re balls deep in warm pussy. But the truth is, you’re not that good when it comes to making decisions. You’ve waffled a long time about ending your channel. You never told your fans that you got Canadian citizenship. She asked you in marriage because you weren’t going to do it. You couldn’t do the channel on your own if she wasn’t there. And best of all…”

With a magician’s hand, he pulled an American passport out of seemingly thin air.

Dave checked his pockets. Of course it was his passport.

“…you never ripped up that American passport as you promised to. You’ve got what you say is the love of your life begging you on her knees to give it up, and still, you didn’t. Why is that, Dave? You rationalize that it’s for travel, for taxes, for your parents, for your fans, and yet that’s all a lie. You’re just incapable of making decisions, Dave. You can’t commit until forced to.”

“I can—.”

“Oh, you have the potential for it, Dave. I’m asking you for one choice. You’ll know it when it happens. Just do the right thing and I’ll take care of you. You’ll never have to make any decisions ever again.”

🏛️

Kean had given up on all notions of sobriety, and he was a mean drunk. He had downed glass after glass, and considering that no one had eaten since that dessert plate back in the State Dining Room, it was all going on an empty stomach.

Peggy looked at him carefully as he poured another glass of hard stuff. He was clearly not planning on doing much over the next few hours. Had he pretty much abandoned any idea of getting out, or was he chasing amnesia after finding about the sacrificial chamber?

And where was Thursk? She half-wanted to get up and go look, but seeing Kean slosh himself into oblivion had its appeal.

Kean sat behind the executive desk, fixating on the mug with the presidential seal on it.

“Get out,” he growled. “Get out, all of you.”

Everyone looked at each other.

“I SAID GET OUT!”

Now they moved. Almost two by two, they streamed out of the Octagonal Office and ended up in the corridor of the executive wing.

“I’m up for coffee,” said the AG as she walked toward the executive pantry, where enough powdered caffeine was stocked to fuel months of frantic apocalyptic policy-making.

Peggy followed at some distance, the toad-like Hiller next to her.

“Should we go see downstairs?” she asked.

“Another thirty minutes,” he said confidently.

“How do you know this? How do you know all of this?”

He smiled, which wasn’t a pretty sight.

“All knowledge is available for a price if you want it enough.”

Yeah, okay. Peggy decided to go check the sacrificial room and turned.

As much as she wasn’t a fan of going anywhere this place, Thursk was still missing, and leaving him alone with Blunt, dead or undead, was a bad idea.

Dead or not, she was her chief of staff—and she would decide who should see him.

🏛️

Everything was about leverage, had long realized Miranda. 

You come from a rich family and your beauty is your one most visible asset. Obviously, you use it to marry up. Then your husband’s contacts are your biggest asset, so you use that to end up on corporate boards. Then your husband dies, so you use that sympathy as capital to get better positions, to conclude deals and to be even more visible. Then you use that success so that you end up in the government’s cabinet.

Leverage.

So, when you’re left for dead on the Entrance Hall floor, you use whatever spark of life you have left to better your position. Impress the rubes into bandaging your hand. Use a toilet stall gap and a thin waist to stay alive when everyone is smashed like eggs in a paint mixer. Use your ID card and some attitude to get in the bunker. Use a knife to free yourself. Use new knowledge to make a better plan. Use determination to get a keycard.

And now use the keycard to gain access to the next phase in her plan.

She tapped the card, and the door to the Octagonal Office opened.

She entered. Kean was lying face down on the executive desk. Dead? She dared hope.

But no—with the bottles lying around, he was drunk.

Well, that would make things easier.

Maybe not as satisfying, though.

She slapped him, knocking some movement into him.

He brought his head up and slowly focused on her.

“I SAID I wanted everyone to get out. Out!” he pointed.

Jesus, he was even more pathetic than she expected.

“No, I’m not getting out,” she said.

“What do you want?”

“I want a clean sweep.”

Then she used her good hand to push her knife through his eye, using extra force to break through the soft part of the skull. Then she moved the knife around, offering him a free lobotomy.

He thrashed twice, then went still and bled over the executive desk.

She searched through his jacket and quickly found what she was looking for. It was in his inner pocket—a very simple black card, laminated and marked with the presidential seal.

It also had authentication numbers.

Killing Kean had long been on her list, but new information bonified his death with a new objective.

The Vice President was one of the few with the power to activate IMMACULATE SWEEP.

🏛️

Peggy nearly turned back three times on her way to the sacrificial chamber.

Once, at the end of the Executive Wing corridor, because she was hungry.

Another, midway through the stairs down, because she was convinced there would be nothing worth seeing down there—two corpses, the sordid reality of which would be magnified by her being the only person alive down there.

Finally, as she opened the door to the chamber, because she wasn’t sure she wanted to see if there was something to see. Would she surprise Thursk in a bout of necrophiliac sodomy with the corpse of the president? At this point in the night, everything seemed possible, maybe even inevitable.

Every time, she pushed those thoughts away. She wasn’t going to wimp out. She would check the situation, then go get a coffee upstairs.

She opened the door and saw that her second suspicion was almost correct—there were only dead bodies in the place. But there were three of them.

Thursk, she realized as she advanced. Thursk had been killed here by someone—the slashed throat was evidence enough.  The spray from his cut throat had drenched the altar and the bodies on it.

She immediately suspected Hiller. Had he wanted to make the resurrection sacrifice even stronger? What better than a trillionaire as a sacrifice?

Before she could investigate the situation further, Blunt moved.

🏛️

Harry stood watching outside the Solarium. Still, there were no signs of dawn. No indication that they were out of that space-time bubble away from the real Washington, DC, ever since their ears had popped. If morning came, there would be signs—but nothing yet, no brightening dawn.

Delilah was standing next to him, also watching for signs of daylight.

“Once we get out of here,” he said, “I’m asking you out. You pick the restaurant.”

“I’d like that, Harry. I’ll be reasonable in the place I pick. As long as you’re there.”

They stood in silence for a while longer.

“I miss Sonia,” said Delilah. “She had this inner calm, you know?”

“Yeah.”

Well, maybe not while kicking the president’s corpse, but all have our triggers.

Behind them, the work crews were chatting—some wondering why they couldn’t try getting out. Harry offered the screwdriver again. Again, one of the kitchen crew (not the same) tried and came back more educated about the situation.

But Harry suspected they wouldn’t stay here forever. Some had wandered off to make use of the washrooms. The kitchenette had been raided for food, and people were nibbling on a few crackers left on the centre table. 

Just as Harry was about to say something about only being an hour until dawn, Abraham Lincoln emerged out of the wall next to the kitchenette, with a staticky hiss that drew attention from everyone in the Solarium.

He didn’t look as good as earlier. His suit was tinged with soot and ripped in spots. There was debris in his beard. The axe was chipped.

Then he spotted Harry.

“We need your help, Harry.”

Uh-oh—another request from a god.

“You need to get to the DUCC, where you were before, and stop her.”

“Who?”

“That woman. If you don’t stop her, none of you will make it to dawn.”

Harry had thought about declining the request, but with the stares of everyone—especially Delilah—on him, this was not an option.

“So, dawn is coming?”

“As long as we all keep fighting. You included.”

🏛️

Blunt rose from the table, unnaturally fast. He got on his feet with the vigour of a much younger man. He wiped the ragged flesh off his throat, revealing an undamaged neck. He shook his hand and sent the gore he’d scraped off his throat to the floor.

He looked around, saw Peggy and smiled. 

“Don’t move,” he said with a voice that thundered throughout the room.

Peggy was frozen in place.

Then he looked at the two bodies on the table in front of him, and reached inside the open cavity of that kakistocracy woman to pull out her internal organs. Which he stuffed into his mouth.

He ate ravenously, consuming the bloody innards at a faster rate than should have been possible, not masticating so much as ingesting everything. Reaching deeper into her torso, he tore out chunks of offal and kept eating beyond the capacity of anyone human.

Was he getting bigger? He was certainly getting younger. The saggy jowls and fleshy neck were smoothing out, firming up, getting bulkier. She saw his suit, already tailored to be ample, start to fill—but not with fat.

He ate and ate. When he finished rummaging through her chest, Blunt easily pulled Thursk’s body on the table. He drove his fingers into his chest in-between the bones of the thoracic cage and, with a CRACK, he tore open his chest cavity.  He feasted anew. Unmentionable bodily fluids kept dripping down his cheeks as he stuffed more and more organs inside his mouth, seemingly swallowing whole. Red blood, obviously, but also yellow bile, cloudy-white mucus from the lungs, magenta liver tissue, and brown stomach acid. The smell was horrifying, and yet Peggy did not dare move. Could not movie.

His suit filled up and started ripping open. Incredibly well-defined muscles emerged—putting bodybuilders to shame, with the tone of a young man.

Within moments, he had finished eating the bulk of Thursk’s innards. He kept the billionaire’s heart for last.

But he wasn’t done. With his hand, he cracked open the skull of the woman and scooped up what was inside. This looked like his favourite part of the obscene meal.

His suit was only left as shreds on top of his torso. His pants were ripped and then his belt snapped open.

Then he ate Thursk’s brain.

Once Blunt was done, he closed his eyes and visibly shook in contentment. Then he stared directly at Peggy.

“Ha ha ha! I’m BACK!” he said.

But Peggy knew he wasn’t. This was not Blunt. Not just him, anyway. Even if you accepted that the resurrection had rejuvenated him, this wasn’t the Blunt of old—he moved differently, looked differently, and even spoke differently from those few words she’d heard so far.

She turned to leave—but impossibly fast, Blunt moved and blocked the door.

He grinned.

Enough clothes remained on him that he wasn’t entirely naked—his shirt and briefs still barely held. But the rest of him was a mass of sinewy muscles—raw physical power.

Horrified, Peggy saw his engorged member thrust out of his underwear in excitement.

“You have served me well, Peggy. Now it’s time for you to do it one more time, as I get ready for what comes next.”

This is not Blunt.

He instantly closed the gap between them and took her head between his two immensely powerful hands.

Peggy had once sworn that she would do anything for Blunt, but she was recanting that vow now.

Please, no, please.

“You will have the honour of being a part of me, forever.”

Then she felt his fingers press against her skull, tear through her scalp and split her head open.

Chapter 16 — The House Always Wins

Miranda knew that she should be heading to the sacrificial chamber to conclude what she intended to do. But she also knew that she would not get back from it, so why not have some fun until then?

Just one more, she thought.

But which one? By sneaking though the DUCC, she understood that only five were left—SecState, the AG, that idiot at Health and the two secret service agents.

Who did she hate more? SecState was a second-rate politician, but he was reasonably competent by the standards of the Blunt administration and hadn’t interacted much with her. Health was such an imbecile that it was a miracle he could cross the street without being splattered by an eighteen-wheeler. The AG, though—the AG was a bitch and an incompetent one at that. She’d laughed about suing Blunt’s political opponents, but she had so thoroughly destroyed the Department of Justice that they couldn’t even muster up cases that weren’t laughed out of court. She’d made the rest of them, those who were trying their best, look bad.

Yes, the AG would be a fitting last act. Knives wouldn’t be enough, though. She’d like to make her scream a bit. Maybe run for mercy.

It was time to raid the armory. 

She had shot guns before—a standard part of southern living, albeit not necessarily fitting the southern belle profile. Still, her father had insisted—a pretty girl needed protection, and it would give her something to talk about with marriage prospects. Of course, her husband had been more interested in corporate buyouts than handguns, so she thought that all that effort had been wasted… until now.

The armory door had thoughtfully been left open, along with the weapon racks. That black guy had obviously raided it before, but there was still enough left to provide a small army of one.

Handgun? Yes, she was familiar with that. Assault rifle? Amusing, but impractical without the use of her two hands. Shotgun? No—with her strapped hand, she wouldn’t be able to reload in time if things got difficult. Although—Well, maybe strapped across her back as insurance. The grenades would be excessive. She did strap on a protective vest—just in case. And took a few magazines to reload.

Feeling much better about her chances, she left the armory and slowly headed to the executive lounge, where the survivors remained. She could hear them talk from several doors away—then there was a flash in her vision.

She saw things. A vision of the White House, from the outside.

She quickly moved inside one of the offices and dropped to the floor, blinking and trying to clear her head.

She saw a flash replacing the White House, then revealing three explosions that grew up and up like a cluster of mushrooms, a shockwave flattening buildings throughout the District.

She saw screens in Cyrillic, in Mandarin, in English.

She saw people shouting, running, taking out cards of authorization codes from their pockets.

She saw fingers flipping pages, entering codes, pressing buttons.

She saw rocket engines igniting, phallic cylinders emerging from underground silos, shooting out of submarines, dropping from airplanes. 

She saw long trails of condensed water following missiles as they roared toward their destination, making ballistic arcs out of the atmosphere and then dropping back in. 

She saw cities rushing faster and faster toward her.

She saw flashes. So many flashes, each one more terrible than the other.

She saw devastated cities, broken buildings, irradiated fields, grey snow covering the earth.

She saw undernourished children fall to the ground and stay still forever. 

She saw people crying.

She saw mass graves and infinite sadness. 

She saw men in primitive clothes hunting in snow-covered destroyed cities.

She saw crumbling concrete, never to be repaired.

She saw a stillness upon the land and nature winning the fight that humanity had started.

The vision faded, but the certainty that she had something to do with it remained. 

She took the access code card she had looted from Kean and threw it across the office.

🏛️

Harry knocked shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits on the door to the library and waited.

Nothing.

“Dave! Gabrielle! You there?”

He tried the handle again—still locked. No sound from inside either.

Should he force his way in? He knew about five ways to do so.

Were they okay in there?

He didn’t want to go down there alone. 

But Lincoln had asked him. Not anyone else.

He shrugged.

“I’m going down to the bunker again,” he said. “Request from the House. I’d like some… help.”

His voice had broken on that last word.

Still nothing.

All right, let’s do this, he thought, let’s go see what I can do downstairs. Alone.

🏛️

After staring into empty space for a few minutes, Miranda was no closer to another plan.

She had heard some shouting when someone had discovered Kean’s still-warm body and had alerted the others, who all rushed into the Octagonal Office.

They would probably search the area. She really should move. But why should she bother?

Detonate IMMACULATE SWEEP and the world is plunged into civilization-ending nuclear war. 

Maybe. If this was the house putting images into Miranda’s head, it was clearly a self-interested intervention. The house would not allow its destruction.

But that didn’t give any alternate course of action left to Miranda. 

Well, except do what she had been doing—one by one until there was no one left. Starting with the AG.

Her good hand was stroking the cool gunmetal of her handgun when she heard a commotion coming from the executive corridor. 

And by “commotion,” it sounded more like an escaped animal. An inhuman roar thundered throughout the DUCC. 

She risked a look outside the office, and saw something crash out of the door frame leading to the sacrificial chamber — A hulking humanoid shape, too big for the entrance and making its way through force.

The figure was nearly naked, with the exception of the ragged remnants of a blue suit, a too-tight undershirt and stained ill-fitting briefs. 

She blinked—this was Blunt brought back to life. Bigger, apparently younger and definitely angrier.

Blunt moved in a straight line toward the Octagonal Office, not caring about the damage he brought forth—he kicked a cart several yards away, shattered a safety glass window with his fist, and simply pushed the doorway open when it proved too inconvenient to enter.

She wasn’t going to go in there. But she wasn’t going to be able to stand by and wonder what was happening there.

A thought came to her—the armory had been right next to a surveillance office. Would the Octagonal Office be wired for security cameras? Would that be stupid or not?

Only one way to find out, by sneaking out of the office and heading back to the security area. Her prudence was meaningless—everyone was in the Octagonal Office and she had the rest of the DUCC to herself.

She slipped into the surveillance room, which, unlike most of the rest of the bunker, was in a self-enclosed windowless room. No vast glass windows here. The panopticon only went so far.

The terminal had been unlocked and left unlocked by a previous user. Incompetence strikes again, she thought. Although, this deep down in the emergency fail-safes of the government’s inner centre, was it still worth it to put in additional security restrictions?

Fortunately, the interface was the latest state-of-the-art—which meant that a trained monkey, the likes of whom were hired in security, could operate it. She flipped through the available cameras, realizing that her trail of murder through the DUCC would have been recorded.

It would make sense that having cameras in the Octagonal Office meant that no areas would be outside the DUCC’s security net. On the other hand, the President would need the capacity of turning off the video feed from within the room—top-secret discussions and all that. 

But they had not—four different cameras were recording what was happening inside the Office, in full 4K resolution and stereo sound.

She got a better look at the resurrected Blunt. It wasn’t the same person: he seemed to have gained six inches and dozens of pounds of muscles. His physique put to shame professional bodybuilders. The remnants of his blue suit hung very loosely around his shoulders, ripped apart by the physical transformation. The pants were gone, which was just as well given the brown seat of the underpants—she had smelled presidential shit clearly enough on the way to the sacrificial chamber.

She was tuning in as the cabinet realized just how much of a fearsome presence the new President Blunt was. He towered over them and enjoyed it.

“…none of you incompetent morons have done anything!”

“We did arrange for your resurrection, Mister President,” obsequiously said Hiller.

“I’m not talking about you, Hiller. You’re the only one here worth a damn. It’s the rest of you clowns I can’t stand.”

Blunt went past the executive desk and contemptuously slapped Kean out of the chair. The force of his strike was enough to send the heavyset body of the former Vice-President flying through the air and hit the wall without grace, where it fell to the floor like a broken doll with a knife through its eye cavity.

Blunt sat at the table and took a deep breath, his scowl expressing contempt for everyone else.

“Are we still stuck in the House?”

“It would appear so, sir.” Said SecState. “Our phones are still cut off and there’s been no intervention from outside.”

“And have you done anything about this? Where’s that Columbia trollop? Still hiding?”

“We don’t know. We had just discovered Kean’s murder and were discussing how to investigate.”

“Oh, very good. The detectives are here. Half of my cabinet lies smashed in my big beautiful ballroom, and another chunk of it is missing and you’re wasting time talking about investigation when you should be talking about revenge.”

The Cabinet looked uneasy, and so was Miranda. Blunt had now twice referenced events that happened after his death, using unusually coherent sentences. This wasn’t just Blunt—but who was he now?

“Revenge against what?” said the Attorney General. 

“Against the House, you stupid bitch! Against that cunt Columbia, who dared criticize me! Do I have to explain everything to you?”

Now angry to the point of spitting, Blunt rose up abruptly, sending the massive wooden executive desk flipping over. Deftly somersaulting over the piece of furniture, he grabbed the AG by the shoulders and shouted in her face.

“YOU WEREN’T PICKED FOR YOUR BRAINS, OBVIOUSLY!” she said, violently shaking her. “BUT WHY DO YOU HAVE TO REMIND EVERYONE OF IT?”

His shaking became uncontrollable and she screamed in pain and confusion. Disgusted, Blunt gave her a final shove that sent her slamming head-first against the wall. She fell to the floor, limp and silent.

SecState immediately went to check on her, and in trying to raise her head, saw that it lolled uselessly. He took her pulse with his fingers to her neck, then looked at Blunt.

“No pulse. Her neck is broken. You killed her.”

“DOES IT LOOK LIKE I CARE?” roared back Blunt. “You serve at my pleasure, all of you! I didn’t even pick you—I trusted those who said you’d be able to do a good job even if you clearly weren’t.”

He turned to the Secretary of Health.

“YOU! I should have fired you a long time ago! You fucking idiot! That worm in your head left HOLES IN YOUR BRAIN.”

Blunt stomped the short distance between him and Health, then grabbed the man by the neck with his oversized right hand.

“Well, I’m going to fix that right now. And let me tell you one thing:  I’m not going to eat your brains.”

He pushed Health up against the wall by the throat, then pushed the man up toward the ceiling and squeezed.

His hand tore through the fragile cartilage of the esophagus then kept squeezing and pushing.

In an instant, he crushed the windpipe and squeezed further. Health’s head, normally red, was turning purple. No sound could emerge from him even though his legs were kicking into empty air.

Blunt squeezed further against the bones of the spinal cord and, with a sickening CRACK, performed a bare-handed decapitation. Health’s headless body fell to the floor, and Blunt threw his head against the wall on the other side of the Office, sending it with such force that it smashed open like an overripe tomato.

By now, the rest of the occupants of the room were terrified—except for Hiller.

“What are you waiting for?” shouted SecState to the Secret Service agents. “Shoot him!”

Miranda saw the flash of panic in the agent’s eyes as they drew their service weapons—shooting at the president had never been part of their training. But the president trying to kill them hadn’t either.  As Blunt charged toward them, self-preservation instinct took over.

Gary was the first to shoot. To his credit, the shots were controlled and aimed for the centre of mass.

They also had no impact whatsoever, besides poking a few holes into the President’s undershirt—the bullets were absorbed without fuss.

Stu was more daring—ignoring procedure, he took aim at the president’s head.

The bullets had slightly more impact in that they took out a few pieces of Blunt’s flesh, but nothing more.

Blunt swatted away Stu to the side, the Secret Service agent’s face smashing against the wall.

Then she took Gary’s face with his gigantic hands and smashed him against the floor, cracking open his skull.

“You were always an idiot, Gary, but at least you hadn’t shot at me.”

Then the president surveyed the carnage left in the Octagonal Office. Five lifeless figures were slumped on the floor. Only Hiller was relatively calm, still sitting and contemplating the last few minutes with detachment.

SecState was panting, obviously fearing for his life. He was eyeing the exit and, taking a chance, made a run for it.

But Blunt was faster, and blocked SecState in such a way that he sent him sprawling to the floor of the Octagonal Office, in the middle of the gigantic Presidential Seal that had been woven into the room’s carpet.

“You should have been stopped a long time ago,” panted SecState.

“Yeah, well, too late—you made me, you knew what you were getting and now I’m unstoppable,” said Blunt. “And for that idiocy, I’m going to tear you apart, limb by limb.”

As Miranda cringed in disgust, he did exactly that. SecState only stopped screaming when Blunt detached the head from his torso—the last thing he did to him.

Miranda shut down every camera and hid in a corner of the security station.

Blunt was not going to stay in the Octagonal Office and the only thing she could do was to stay out of his sight and hope for the best.

Five minutes passed. She distantly heard a conversation of some sort—too low to make out any word, but it was clearly between Blunt and Hiller because there wasn’t anyone else left alive down here.

She also heard noises that sounded a lot like eating, and that took longer than the conversation.

Then she heard the footsteps, thundering through the bunker. They sounded much heavier than before—and Blunt was not making any attempt at walking softly—it was STOMP, STOMP, STOMP reverberating through the bunker.

The sounds grew louder. She made herself even smaller. 

Despite herself, her breath drew faster. This clearly wasn’t the doddering, near-demented sad excuse for a President that the country had elected for itself. 

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP.

She recalled how Uncle Sam had looked at her as she was approaching Thursk with murderous intent. 

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP

This was something new—a fusion between Uncle Sam itself in Blunt’s radically reworked body. But who was leading? There was none of Uncle Sam’s cartoonish demeanour, just as there was little of Blunt’s weirdly charismatic characteristics—the surprisingly whiny voice, the expansive hand gestures, the limited vocabulary were gone, and the man’s anger was magnified. 

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP.

She realized that the footsteps were growing slightly fainter.

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP

To the best of her knowledge, Uncle Sam had a near-omniscient perception of the White House. He popped up when he felt like it, knew where everyone was and could practically read minds. She should be blindingly obvious to him. What did it mean if Blunt had passed her by?

She closed her eyes in pain. More visions were forcing their way into her head.

She saw a tall man in a stovepipe hat missing a swing of his axe, falling to the floor, being kicked to death by Blunt.

She saw Blunt cracking open Lady Columbia’s head and feasting on her grey matter.

She saw Blunt, now taller than doorways, smashing open the entrance of the White House, triumphantly walking outside in the sunlight, fist raised in victory.

She saw Blunt brushing aside the impact of increasingly powerful weaponry—small arms, automatic weapons, rockets, and tank shells. She saw him emerge from the blinding flash of high-explosive charges, of fuel-air thermobaric bombs, of high-intensity cruise-missile payloads, of tactical nuclear explosions, each time feeding off the energy to become bigger and stronger.

She saw people bowing down in front of him.

She saw him tearing apart one leg of the Eiffel Tower, smashing his fist into the Big Ben Tower, knocking down the Brandenburg Gate.

She saw him bathing in the light of city-destroying nuclear explosions.

She saw him sitting on a throne made out of a pile of skulls, satisfied of his power as the decades went by—the audience changing, dwindling, but him remaining at the apex of creation, the world serving his whims until he was the last one left alive.

She blinked and her vision cleared. This felt as much like a prophecy as a call for help.

And a voice, whispering: You’re alive. Do something!

No longer hearing footsteps, she rushed back to the room where she had flicked the laminated card with the IMMACULATE SWEEP activation codes.

🏛️

Harry avoided monster Blunt by three seconds.

After Dave and Gabrielle had not answered his pleas, he wasn’t going back down there without preparation—sure, he still had a few weapons, but he needed his tool belt to feel whole.

So, he’d gone back to the engineering unit’s shop in the basement—grabbing the belt and a few essentials that technically weren’t considered weapons but were still invaluable—zip ties, hammer, locking pliers, needle-nose pliers and such.

It was that decision that saved his life, because as he neared the elevator to the DUCC, he heard the whirr of it coming up. He ducked into a doorway—nothing good could come out of meeting someone coming from down there.

He heard the door open, and then the STOMP, STOMP, STOMP of what sounded like a lumbering beast half-walking, half-colliding through the corridors.

He saw it walk past his nook—a brutish humanoid with finely hewn bodybuilding-grade muscles, at least seven and a half feet tall. It almost looked like Blunt in some ways, but it couldn’t be, right?

Then Harry saw the soiled underwear. And recalled the resurrection ceremony.

He nearly gasped, but any noise could have led the figure to turn its head and look at him—and he didn’t like the idea of that.

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP.

But the beast continued, followed by that goblin-like high priest.

Harry counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty, then took the elevator down, holding his breath until he was a few stories below.

🏛️

“Get up, Dave! GET THE FUCK UP, DAVE!” screamed Uncle Sam in his ear.

“Not you again.”

“LOOK AT ME!”

Dave opened his eyes and gasped.

Uncle Sam was in front of him, but he was nearly unrecognizable. The America-coloured top hat was half-burned away, his beard was dirty with blood and soot, and his red-white-and-blue clothes were tattered and dirty.

But the worst thing was that half his face was missing—blown away, burned off, Dave couldn’t tell. But Uncle Sam had clearly been on the receiving end of a few serious blows.

“Change of plans, Dave! CHANGE OF PLANS!”

As he spoke, Dave noticed that additional pieces of his flesh were disappearing. His normally relaxed southern drawl was gone, replaced by frantic, panicked energy.

“I thought I could control him. I was wrong. Now he’s taking over. Fuck my promise about a penthouse in Manhattan—if he wins, there won’t be a Manhattan.”

“I… what…”

The walls between sleep and wakefulness were collapsing and it wasn’t at Dave’s advantage. What had been clear in a dream was getting increasingly uncertain the more he woke up.

“I fucking hate saying this, but accept Columbia’s offer, Dave. She’s our only chance. When she asks, give yourself up.”

Uncle Sam was fading entirely—whether from Dave waking up or something else.

“You’ve always thought of yourself as such a fucking goody two shoe, Dave, now it’s time to prove it.”

🏛️

After two years in the storm of Blunt’s administration, Miranda was used to having “I don’t know what to do” running as a loop in her inner monologue. That was why she’d relied so much on Logan Ewing—he always had an idea to try out, or to wait in such a way that they’d feel smarter as new facts came in.

Ewing, the smartest man in the Department of Agriculture, who had been the first to hightail it.

Miranda went down the stairs to the sacrificial chamber, but she wasn’t making any commitment as to what she would do down there. Or whether she would turn back up at any point.

On the one hand: The nuclear destruction of the White House would—no, could—lead to a global thermonuclear exchange that would end human civilization on Earth.

On the other hand: Not detonating the nuclear bomb would leave Blunt-the-invincible-God-Emperor free to walk out of here and begin his reign of terror, again leading to the downfall of everything.

What a choice.

She reached the last landing of the stairs. She wasn’t thinking about her hand, her bruises, or the way blood had dried in uncomfortable ways all over her.

She had, after all, stopped in the Orthogonal Office to see the carnage for herself. She hadn’t stayed for more than five seconds before turning back and retching against the wall, a rope of clear foamy liquid coming from her empty stomach.

That was why she continued toward the sacrificial chamber. Such a monster had to be stopped.

There was something new when she reached the bullet-marked open door leading to the sacrificial chamber. Another body since the last time she had been here. The President’s Chief of Staff. Or what was left of her, since her head had been brutally torn open and much of her chest cavity emptied. 

The bodies on the altar were similarly defiled—husks of people who had been, until recently, breathing, thinking and living. Now remnants of a cannibalistic feast—leftover meat, thrown away.

Miranda should have thrown up, but there wasn’t anything left.

Why so fragile, all of a sudden? Weren’t you slashing your way through Cabinet?

Instead, she had a cold new determination—Blunt had to be stopped before it was too late.

If it wasn’t already too late.

She would at least find salvation through self-immolation.

🏛️

Harry wasn’t against watching a late-night horror movie or two. He particularly liked 1980s horror—a reflection of how old he was, of course, but also the unique blend of horror, dark comedy, rubbery special effects, no-fucks-given screenwriting and the welcome flashes of nudity. It wasn’t great art, but it was fun.

None of this applied to the horror that was the DUCC. It had been bad enough the first time he’d gone through here, but it was even worse now:  Traces of destruction tracked where the monstrous Blunt abomination had been.

Noticing that the trail of destruction led to the Octagonal Office, he had stopped by for a look, but not for long—his brain refused to register the level of brutal carnage that had taken place there, and it didn’t take much of an imagination to deduce that Blunt had done the killing.

So, he hurried toward the sacrificial chamber, again. What would he see once he arrived? There were a few people unaccounted for, but if you removed the demented priest he’d seen upstairs, there weren’t that many people with the potential to do something bad down there. Although Dave had mentioned something about a nuclear bomb during their ride up the elevators?

One thing was clear—once this was over, he was done taking orders from gods and monsters.

He was breathing hard by the time he arrived at the bottom of the older bunker—without quite realizing it, he had increased his pace to a near-run down the staircase.

He had also disengaged the safety lever from the rifle in his hands.

Chapter 17 — The House Folds

“Gabi? We have to get up. Gabi?” said Dave while gently trying to wake up his wife.

He had finished blinking away his drowsiness. He had woken up where he had fallen asleep—on the library’s sofa, cuddling Gabi. They had briefly freshened up in the attached bathroom before drowsing away, but their clothes were clearly in disarray, and Gabi’s hair was now attractively messy.

He kissed her. She opened up her eyes.

“You know,” she said, “If we weren’t stuck in a house of horrors—.”

“—rescued from ritual sacrifice after seeing a friend butchered—”

“—and stuck with monsters intent on deadly retribution,—.”

“—this would be the start of a pretty good day.”

They didn’t laugh for fear of being overheard, but they chuckled.

“We’ve got to move, Gabi. Lady Columbia needs us.”

“How do you know?”

“Um—.”

There was no way this wasn’t going to sound crazy or stupid.

“Dreams,” he finally said. “More than dreams.”

She nodded and accepted it. Their definition of crazy or stupid had changed a lot in the past twelve hours.

“Are we ready to go?”

Gabi looked at the equipment they had salvaged. Most of their equipment cases and their content had been lost throughout their travels throughout the White House, but at least they had the essentials: The main camera, their two microphones and recorders, and the memory cards holding everything.

Gabi quickly installed the second microphone on her—it was easier to carry when it was set up.

Dave was about to suggest getting out when he heard a massive STOMP, STOMP, STOMP coming from the outside, coming closer.

They quickly huddled behind the sofa in an attempt to hide if the door was opened, but the stomps passed them by the room’s west side, climbing up the stairs. They could hear the staircase marble being broken by the footsteps.

What was that? wordlessly eyed Gabi.

I don’t know! answered Dave without speaking.

But this was clearly the thing that had Uncle Sam so spooked.

He nodded, she nodded, and from the sound of it, the stomping thing was now upstairs.

He unlocked the door to their cozy refuge and discreetly looked out. 

Nothing. No one. 

But there was a trail leading to the stairs going up—broken tiles, scratches on the walls, torn railing, ripped paintings and visible damage as something BIG had gone roughshod on its way up.

From the sound of it, there was something happening upstairs. He left the library behind and climbed cautiously.

Whatever had gone up had stepped on the marble heavily enough to crack and break the tiles. What were they going against?

He peeked around the corner to the Entrance Hall and had part of the answer.

It was Blunt; he was sure of it. Except that this resurrected Blunt was taller than door frames, muscled beyond definition and clearly angrier than ever. Besides him, the toady high priest stayed at a distance.

The stench was still significant.

Behind him, Gabi moved to get a peek.

Blunt roared at the North Portico’s front door and touched the doorknob. A crackle of electricity and a flash of blue clearly blocked his way. Except that he didn’t let go of the knob—he grunted his frustration, bared his teeth and tried to outlast the electrical shock.

It lasted an unbearably long time, with blue sparks engulfing his hands and the crackling of electricity turning into sizzling flesh.

“We can’t let you leave,” said a calm voice.

Blunt turned toward the voice and advanced deeper in the Entrance Hall. Dave and Gabi moved closer to see.

There he was, standing in the central corridor — The House, or rather Abraham Lincoln hefting his axe with a determined expression.

“We’re glad we were able to dispense with the proxies,” said Lincoln. “Let’s resolve this, presidents against impostor.”

Lincoln had seen better days. By this point in the night, who in the White House did not have scuffed clothing, mussed hair, bruises, soot stains and a thousand-yard stare? But he seemed determined.

“You, Blunt, have been a blight upon this house. Now let’s start cleaning your stain from America.”

Blunt roared and charged, easily sidestepped by Lincoln.

Blunt, carried by his mass and inertia, crashed into the American flag next to the door leading to the Blue Room, cracking the marble tiling. The Presidential seal hanging over the door fell to the floor.

Lincoln kept moving toward the East, beckoning Blunt with a taunt.

“The sooner we get rid of you, the better this country will be!” he bellowed as he kept moving.

Blunt was easily baited — He ran toward Lincoln, with his assistant and then Dave and Gabrielle following.

Lincoln led Blunt into the East Room, through the wide-open twin doors of the East Room.

Dave could imagine Sonia whisper her take about the East Room in his ear.

“The East Room is the single largest room in the White House, often used for large-scale receptions, press conferences, ceremonies, banquets, even dancing and concerts. Don’t forget what they did to me, Dave. This has been a place for treaty signatures, oaths of office, weddings and funerals. Guess what event I’m in the mood for right now, Dave? Lincoln, FDR and Kennedy had a funeral in this room—as is usually the case for presidents who die in office. I would very much like to add another name to that list, Dave.”

The entrance of the East Room was wide enough that Dave and Gabi could see inside without stepping into the room. Gabi had her camera out and filming. Blunt’s toady had followed inside, but stayed a safe distance away from the combatants, who were unaware of anything but sizing each other.

“I will snap you like a twig, Abe,” promised Blunt. “You’ve been annoying enough. I will not hold back.”

“Neither will we. And we both know who’s the real wrestler here.”

Blunt raged and charged. The contrast between the two couldn’t have been sharper—Lincoln tall and lanky, Blunt large and over-muscular like a cartoon character. Blunt took a swing at Lincoln, and in defiance of the laws of physics, Abe blocked his massive fist by raising his hand. It was as if Blunt had hit a wall—he jerked back his hand in pain.

“You’re not up against a man,” said Lincoln. “You’re up against history.”

“You’re not up against a man either,” said Blunt. “You’re against the anger of a country.”

Blunt punched and this time, the hit staggered Lincoln. More hits came from Blunt, and Dave saw each punch not only connect with the man in the suit, but dent into his body. How was this possible? still wondered Dave even after everything he had seen throughout the night.

Blunt stopped punching and Lincoln fell to his knees on the floor.

“Not so haughty now, aren’t you? You brainiacs talk a good game, but you’re not worth shit when you come against real opposition.”

Blunt pulled back his leg, clearly intending to strike the man while he was down, but a shot rang out and suddenly Blunt’s leg was amputated at the knee.

“You mess with one of us, you mess with all of us!” thundered a booming voice from the other end of the East Room.

Dave saw the newcomer: A portly man with round glasses, an old-school hunter’s outfit and a hunting rifle. 

“Isn’t that Roosevelt?” he whispered to Gabi. “Franklin?”

“Teddy,” corrected Gabi, just as awed as he was.

Other shapes materialized behind Teddy Roosevelt—JFK in immaculate white navy dress uniform, a service revolver in his hand. He was in good company—even Dave could recognize Carter in another naval uniform. Eisenhower with his combat uniform rather than the dress uniform he could have worn as the General of the Army. Bush-the-First with an aviator leather jacket. And more that Dave couldn’t identify.

All were holding weapons. All raised them toward Blunt.

“You are unworthy of being mentioned in the same breath as all of us,” said Roosevelt. “We were flawed, we made mistakes, we seldom reached the ideals of this republic. But we respected the office. We forgot ourselves to work for this country. And we worked for all Americans.”

Despite the impressive speech, Dave noticed that Blunt’s leg was regrowing—first spurred as thin bones, then adding mass.

“You were the worst of us. You ran not as a member of a political party, but as an egomaniac. You defiled and soiled the office of the presidency and sold it to whoever paid you money or attention. You were uninterested in the betterment of anyone else. You pitted American against American, dismantled the government, and corroded our institutions. You were too stupid, too ignorant to have any proper respect for the values that made us great.”

The past presidents were slowly moving, forming a half-circle around Blunt. A firing squad.

Dave’s ears popped. A grunt from Gabi told him he wasn’t the only one.

Suddenly, the first light of dawn shone through the windows of the room.

“And now we pass our judgment.”

As one, they fired.

As per protocol, they all aimed for the heart. None of them missed. No matter the weapon they used, the bullets had some weight to them: As dozens of hits ripped Blunt’s chest apart, chunks of flesh fell to the floor in front of him, exposing his beating heart.

“Second Round!” said Roosevelt. “Ready!”

The clicks of reloading weapons chittered at once.

“Aim!”

They all steadied their weapons.

“Fire!”

Another round of gunshots thundered through the room. More flesh and blood erupted from Blunt’s chest, the bullets reaching so deeply into Blunt that the back of his shirt was bloodied.

Blunt staggered and, for a moment, Dave thought this was the end of it.

But Blunt cackled.

“You can’t bring me down like this. You guys are the elite that have rejected me all of my life. You’re the ones who created the anger I feed on. You’re the prissy little bitches that laughed at me, those who put in place the rules that stopped everyone from getting what they wanted. Well, now you have to deal with us. WITH ME!”

With that sound, he launched himself into the crowd of presidents, intent on tearing and ripping them apart. Never expecting such a move, the presidents were disorganized. Some, like JFK and Teddy Roosevelt, were quick to draw and shoot again—but not being able to concentrate their fire only meant that the impact was limited to surface wounds on Blunt’s muscular carcass.

Most others didn’t fare so well—Blunt ripped apart throats, broke necks, tore limbs off, and punched his fist through thoracic cages. 

Lincoln solidly swung his axe in the middle of Blunt’s back—a wound that should have made him instantly fall to the floor, never again able to rise, but Blunt merely shrugged off the inconvenience as he kept killing—punching, ripping and eviscerating his predecessors.

One by one, the bodies of the past presidents hit the floor. JFK, Teddy Roosevelt and a surprisingly athletic Gerald Ford lasted the longest, but Blunt’s rage was without bound—he cracked skulls open, kicked presidents to send them crashing into the ceiling and slammed them down so strongly that they shattered the flooring. Then he stomped on them.

One dead president after another, Dave’s spirits sank. Was there nothing to stop him? And now that the doors of the White House were open…

In the end, it was back to Blunt and Lincoln, once again facing each other. Except that Abe wasn’t looking so strong, and Blunt was fuelled by maniacal rage bolstered by, once again, having won against all odds.

🏛️

There was a lot to take in when Harry entered the sacrificial chamber—the expected, such as the absence of Blunt, Sonia’s body, and a sacrificial altar built on a nuclear bomb. But other unexpected elements testified as to just how many things had happened since Harry had last been here—the evisceration of not only Sonia, but also trillionaire Thursk and the empty husk of what Harry recognized as Blunt’s chief of staff. 

But most of all, Harry focused on the woman crouching near the altar, punching numbers in an electronic panel.

He fired a shot in the wall.

“Stop right now. I’m not kidding!”

She drew a weapon of her own and shot the wall besides him.

“Neither am I.”

“You can’t seriously want to detonate a nuclear bomb here!”

“It’s the only way to contain Blunt. You’ve seen him.”

Harry nodded.

“We can’t let that into the world. Even if we have to sacrifice ourselves for it.”

“There’s another way.”

“Is there? Because right now Blunt is steamrolling everyone else. True to form.”

“There are a dozen people up in the executive residence. People who have nothing to do with this and could like to go home.”

“No one’s innocent. Not here. Not now. Who are you anyway?”

“I’m the Chief Engineer of the White House.”

She nodded, then shrugged, then kept punching numbers in the machine.

🏛️

Miranda wasn’t phased by the arrival of someone else. It had taken some time to find the handgun and shoot at the wall besides him, but that was all she needed.

The numbers on the card were unidentified. If it was anything like the bunker codes they had been assigned, she knew that they more or less corresponded to days of the week—but which ones?

So, she tried the next one on the list, intending to try them all or until the machine locked itself. The bomb, curiously enough, accepted her first few tries without seizing—allowing for nervous panicky fingers most likely to enter the code, she supposed.

She probably had a limited number of attempts, so she had to make them count.

The third number worked—the bomb beeped and the detonation counter started, giving her thirty seconds to… do what, exactly?

At least the blast would be contained inside the White House bubble. Maybe it would collapse from the blast, and Washington would wake up to a destroyed White House. Good morning, America.

Then her ears popped and her phone started buzzing from the stream of messages coming in.

Surprised, she looked at the Chief Engineer.

🏛️

“Cancel the countdown!” he shouted, waving the gun.

“No.”

Before Harry could do anything, she put her gun against the card and fired, punching a hole where the activation/deactivation code would be.

He rushed her, pushing her aside.

He looked at the display—twenty seconds and counting

YoubetterthinkfastHarry!

Ignoring the woman, he unslung the hammer from his tool belt and assessed his chances.

He knew that atomic bombs were complicated machines. To be effective, simultaneous explosions were needed around a sphere of uranium, compressing the mass inward in order to create a chain reaction. The synchronization of the explosions was crucial—the slightest misalignment would result in a dud, spraying the sacrificial chamber with radioactive dust but not creating an explosion. The mechanisms for a hydrogen bomb were even more complex, with the nuclear explosion being the trigger for the bigger explosion.   

He also knew that bombs that instantly detonated when you cut the wrong wire were the stuff of movies—at least for nuclear bombs. Safely entombed under the White House, such a bomb would not have decoy wires. Any disruption should be enough to abort the whole shebang. The countdown wasn’t for show—it was the time the machine needed to set itself up.

His hesitation was more—where to create enough damage yet avoid a dirty bomb detonation that would irradiate them?

No time to think any longer—he aimed his hammer under the countdown timer and smashed it with all he could muster, given his posture and available time.

The hammer tore through the exposed circuit board, shattered the electronics and the timer stopped.

Time stood still. In his head, he continued the countdown. 

He reached zero, and nothing happened.

He gave it five seconds’ grace, and still nothing happened.

“You’ve doomed us all!” said the woman before jumping on him with a knife.

🏛️

This time, it was Lincoln who charged Blunt with a wrestling move. He went down, lifted him at the last moment and drove Blunt all the way to the wall separating the East Room from the Green Room, smashing through the red marble fireplace.

Both struggled into the debris. Lincoln’s hat fell off.

“I destroyed a third of you when I had the East Wing bulldozed,” spat Blunt. “Now I’m going to finish the job.”

Lincoln punched Blunt, but he was clearly weakening—Dave knew that the death of the other presidents had taken something out of the House. While his punches found their target, their force was weakening, and Blunt was shrugging off the blows more easily.

They destroyed some more of the wall and the fireplace, not quite tipping over into the Green Room but destroying its white marble fireplace as collateral damage.

Blunt grinned when he realized that Lincoln’s punches and kicks were no longer having any effect.

“There’s nothing right about this,” said an exhausted Lincoln. “How can this be?”

“I was offered unlimited power. Why does anything about this surprise you?”

Then, with a scream, Blunt pushed Lincoln’s body through the partition leading to the Green Room. 

Dave and Gabi moved to follow, staying in the Central Hall.

Blunt slammed Lincoln to the floor, then kicked a chair against the wall so hard that it splintered.

Lincoln tried to get up, but Blunt slammed him again into the floor, the tiles crackling under him.

Then Blunt took the remnants of the chair and hammered the inch-wide wooden chair legs so that Lincoln’s right arm was pinned to the floor. Then his left one. Then his legs.

Lincoln was so weakened that he could no longer move.

“This is only a reprieve for you,” said Lincoln. “We will be back. Stronger. We will stop you.”

“No one has stopped me so far. Not defeat, not death, not you.”

Blunt reached for one of the elaborate marble figures that had formerly been part of the now-destroyed fireplace mantle. 

He raised the heavy marble column above his head, then smashed it into Lincoln’s face.

🏛️

“Stop! STOP!” screamed Harry as the madwoman kept trying to jam a knife in his throat.

He was holding both of her hands, but getting her to drop the knife wasn’t so simple, especially considering that she and the knife hung over him and she also kept trying to knee him in the balls.

Bolstering his back against the floor, trying to ignore the bodily fluids around him, he pushed her back and rolled.

The knife clattered to the floor and he rose to his knees, finding a way to grab his gun.

“I don’t want to kill you!” he said while aiming at her. “There have been too many deaths already!”

As he expected, she drew a gun on him.

“You got any better ideas?” she said.

“Yeah, we go back up and out! You go kill Blunt, or you run, I DON’T CARE!”

“There’s only one elevator out.”

“Then TAKE IT! I’ll give you two minutes head-start! Back away and go!”

Amazingly, this seemed to work—she backed away, nearly tripping on the body of the chief of staff, but eventually made it to the door then turned and ran.

Harry exhaled. He wasn’t good with people. They were the worst. He trusted machines better. But he had somehow managed to get her out without shooting or stabbing her in the process, which had to count for something. 

At least no one else had died here.

He lied about giving her two minutes: he was ready to give her three.

In the meantime, he had something else to do.

He took Sonia’s cold hand and mumbled a few words of remembrance.

Moments later, the entire DUCC shuddered.

🏛️

Dave had been in an earthquake before, but this was something different—as if an entire building convulsed.

He grabbed Gabi’s hand, and she found was already reaching out for his.

The worst of the shaking lasted five seconds, but it didn’t truly end—As Dave heard shattering and thuds suggesting that objects in the house were breaking, several paintings fell onto the floor. Marble tiling broke. Plaster fell off the ceiling.

“This house is going to crumble upon itself,” said Gabi.

Dave found nothing outlandish in that statement.

Blunt laughed, his triumph echoing into Dave’s head.

“NO ONE CAN STOP ME!”

🏛️

Miranda was thrown to the floor by the bunker’s shaking.

Something had changed; she felt it. The House was no longer isolated, as her phone’s persistent buzzing kept reminding her. But it was worse than that—as if a central piece was missing.

She ran to the elevator, the glass walls around her splintering as the entire building shifted on its foundations. She managed to avoid cuts, but not by much—she ran throughout the entire executive wing, then made a beeline to the elevator to get out of here.

Would it work? She thought, panicking. Would it still be functional? Would it rise to the surface, or would it trap her down here? There had to be another way, she thought—it was a hundred yards down, there had to be stairs somewhere.

At the elevator, she frantically pushed the UP button, and the elevator door opened.

She got it and hoped for the best.

As the doors closed and the elevator rose, she remembered—this place had been built to shrug off a direct nuclear hit on Washington, DC. It would work.

But that wasn’t much comfort, especially when she got an even stronger vision of Blunt sitting on a throne of skulls.

Chapter 18 — The Lady of the House

FUCK IT, I’M LEAVING, screamed Harry’s most primary instincts as the sacrificial chamber shuddered around him. The walls were cracking, skull-threatening chunks of concrete falling down. The room wouldn’t stand still for a moment. 

His promised two minutes’ head-start were up and over, so he just ran. He threw away his tool belt and his weapons, but none of them had been really slowing him down as he raced up the stairs on pure adrenaline.

He knew, somehow, that the White House—his house!—had been harmed. 

He kept a hand on the railing—the tremors were intermittent, and he wouldn’t want an ill-timed footstep sending him crashing down.

The noise was unlike anything he had heard before—concrete pieces grinding against each other, metal snapping, and glass splintering into place. This house was slowly collapsing. Would it take minutes or hours? Or would it happen instantly?

He knew he was more than a hundred yards underground. None of the timelines were appealing.  Instant death, or being trapped deep underground.

His breath was laboured by the time he reached the corridor leading to the DUCC itself, but he kept running. With the rising panic of being in the bowels of a building about to crumble upon itself, even stopping for a breath would change absolutely nothing to how he felt.

There was no choice but to keep running. Most of the formerly elegant glass partitions separating the DUCC’s various areas had already been reduced to glass fragments crackling underneath his boots. The tremors had slowed down, but hadn’t stopped. Periodically, one of them would send him, or the building sideways hard enough that he’d have to adjust his footing to avoid crashing into the wall.

There was a THUD, and a cloud of dusty air outpaced him—the sacrificial chamber and the stairs leading to it had collapsed behind him. The House, wounded, was going to crumble from the inside out.

Goodbye, Octagonal Office. Goodbye, armory, goodbye, central crossroad, entrance door vault—he was running for his life and he never intended to come back down here ever again. He didn’t even think this place would exist in five minutes. If not sooner.

He repeatedly pressed the elevator button and thought of Delilah, up there on the roof. Would they get out in time?

The elevator doors opened—YES FOR AMERICAN EARTHQUAKE-PROOF ENGINEERING!

But then the power went out as he entered the small space.

AW, FUCK ME.

🏛️

Blunt’s laughter echoed in the crumbling White House.

“IT’S TIME FOR THE WORLD TO LEARN WHAT A BLUNT MILLENNIA WILL LOOK LIKE!”

Stronger than ever, Blunt smashed open the door frame to the Green Room. He stepped into the Central Corridor, with Dave and Gabi stepping out of sight just at the right time.

So that was it, thought Dave—Blunt would simply walk out of the White House and keep wreaking havoc on an even larger scale. Unchecked, invincible, yet no smarter nor more empathetic.

The world was about to be shaped by a mad god.

“Do not worry,” said a female voice in his ear while he felt a reassuring pressure on his shoulder. “But be ready.”

Blunt was nearly halfway through the Entrance Hall when Lady Columbia emerged from the front door, sword in hand.

She did not look good. Her white robe was singed and ripped. Her hair was a mess. Soot on her face. She staggered once, and looked exhausted. 

“You will not exit this house,” she said, shaking her head.

“See if you can hold me, bitch,” said Blunt while swatting her aside.

🏛️

Miranda climbed up to the Central Foyer right on time to see Lady Columbia remain completely immobile as Blunt’s swatting attempt failed. His arm stuck the woman as if she had been made of metal or concrete. She didn’t move, and he pulled back his arm, hurt.

“What?”

“I have not been idle for a single moment over the past night,” she said, the sunlight growing brighter behind her. “I am ready for this battle…”

She drew her sword, too fast to see, and some of Blunt’s left fingers fell on the floor.

“…and I intend to win through overwhelming force.”

Then she threw him with her other hand, across the Entrance Hall and Central Hall, through the central door frame and into the Blue Room.

🏛️

Harry panted and kept climbing.

Of course, there were stairs to get out of the DUCC. No engineer worth a damn would have planned it otherwise. It was just a fucking pain to run up—especially right after climbing a few stories.

Still, he kept at it. He was getting a workout, but the nervous energy of, say, avoiding death kept him sufficiently motivated.

He reached the top landing, kicking open a door that had become stuck through the building’s steady shaking and barged into the White House basement.

Then he groaned, realizing that he still had another four floors to climb before getting to the Solarium.

🏛️

As Blunt tried picking himself up from the Blue Room floor, Lady Columbia strode into the room like an avenging angel.

Wasting no time, she stabbed Blunt through the heart with her sword, embedding the weapon in the blue carpet and the wooden flooring.

Gabi quickly moved to the remnants of the Green Room, looking through an open doorway to see what was happening in the central oval room. Dave hurriedly followed.

Groaning, Blunt pulled the sword out, cutting his hand on the sharp edges.

“Did you think that would be enough?” he said, getting up to his feet.

“Every prick matters,” she said, reaching inside her robe and pulling a dagger that she threw toward the ceiling.

Blunt started to laugh, but then a chandelier fell on top of his head.

“You can’t destroy me… ’he said while pulling the glass fragments and heavy metal structure of the chandelier off him. ‘I am the true America. The discontent. The frustrated. The angry. They will forever be part of the republic, and I will channel them.’

“That is only true if you do not believe in a more perfect union.” Said Lady Columbia, as the two combatants circled the oval arena of the room. “Which you do not, because you cannot understand what is good. To most people, the world is not a series of transactions. They tolerate business because it enables their happiness. But the purpose of the world is sharing, it is collaboration, it is love.”

“Spare me the hippie-dippy shit,” said Blunt, raising a fist to strike her.

She moved to the side, but he adjusted his blow in consequence and struck her squarely in the face.

Dave drew back and cringed. She seemed so sure of herself.

Pushing her to the floor, Blunt kneeled on top of Lady Columbia and punched her again in the face. Then again.

🏛️

I could just walk away, realized Harry.

His ears had popped back, that crazy lady’s phone had started buzzing, and he could see daylight seeping through the windows.

They were able to get out now. The house was once again in the real world. He could take the nearest door and walk out. Never come back.

But he didn’t. Delilah and seven other people were waiting for him.

He would shepherd them to safety.

🏛️

There was something primal and revolting about seeing an ugly hulking mass like Blunt mounting the beautiful Columbia and then hitting her like the worst domestic abuser, instantly thought Miranda.

She couldn’t leave it be. Couldn’t let it go.

Yes, they were gods and monsters impervious to human attacks, but humanity is not always about doing the sensible thing.

With her good hand, she reached to grab the assault shotgun strapped across her back. Two bullets loaded. Tremendous stopping power. Shortened barrel for a wide spread at close range. Shotguns of that calibre, once said her father, did not kill people by simply making holes into them—they killed because they punched metal pellets into people, ripping flesh along the way.

Blunt was too busy hitting Columbia in the face to notice her approach.

Bracing the shotgun against her shoulder against the recoil, she aimed the shotgun at the back of Blunt’s head, right where the neck met the skull. 

Got within twelve inches of him, but no closer for a good spread.

Then she pressed the trigger.

🏛️

As he reached the top floor of the White House, Harry had gone well beyond anything he would have imagined as being capable of. He hadn’t risked taking the elevator leading up—the danger of it not working, or stopping working while he was inside, was simply too great.

But his hearts and lungs—oh boy.

Had he done this in vain, though? Were they still all in the Solarium?

Not Dave, not Gabi, he somehow knew. They had their own trials to face.

As he walked through the corridors of the top floor, he saw that the house was decaying—every painting had fallen to the floor, every glass or mirror surface was shattered, every wall and ceiling were crackling. Were the passageways narrowing? He felt the surfaces of the building contract and expand, buckling steadily as if it was breathing as hard as he was.

🏛️

Much of Blunt’s lower skull exploded. Fragments of his jaw, neck and teeth splattered the Blue Room.

It clearly hurt him—his hands stopped wailing on Lady Columbia, and reached to what was left of his neck.

Dave could see that only his vertebrae still connected Blunt’s head to the rest of his body. The shotgun blast had blown everything away. Dave counted three distinct vertebrae as Blunt’s head fell and lolled uselessly on his chest.

As Blunt took his head in his hands to keep it upright, Lady Columbia slipped out from under him and went directly to Dave and Gabi.

“I will not win this alone,” she said, even more seriously than ever. “I need you as my Trinity. I will do what is necessary, but you must not resist if we are to succeed. Will you accept me inside you?”

Dave knew that this was the decision he’d been warned about. But it wasn’t, not really—it was the climax of a series of decisions, from travelling to Washington, DC, to entering the House to accepting to serve as waitstaff, to accepting he’d been a jerk to Gabi, to not running away whenever the House had lifted their hold. It was the inevitable path of where he had decided, minute choice by minute choice, to be.

“Yes, I do,” he said.

“Yes, I do,” echoed Gabi.

Behind them, Blunt was healing at an even more accelerated pace. Tendons and muscle were growing to support his neck, and Dave could see his esophagus regrow as well.

Columbia entered him.

His mind expanded. He felt what Columbia felt, then what Gabi felt—and he knew that his own sensations were being mirrored with the two others.

But he wasn’t just himself anymore. He felt incredibly powerful—the power coursing through Columbia infusing his muscles. Nothing hurt. He could snap apart one of the blue chairs in the room with his bare hands. If hurt, he would heal.

What do we do now? he thought.

I will guide you, reassured Columbia.

I’m ready, thought Gabi.

His wife’s train of thought flowed upon him like a calming salve—so familiar, so warm, so competent.

He couldn’t resist the impulse to check up on Gabi. Few spouses can read each other’s minds, he thought, but here we are.

Here we are, indeed, love, thought Gabi. Her mind was a stream of English and French that he understood instantly. Now let’s finish this.

Columbia agreed with them, and handed them swords that she pulled out of her robe.

This will feel strange, she warned.

Dave understood in the next few moments, as Gabi and him deployed around the room, each step precisely planned by Columbia but each step feeling as if it was his own inevitable decision.

E pluribus unum, he understood. 

The woman’s shotgun blast had given them a few seconds, but no more—Blunt’s neck and throat were nearly regrown, and his focus was on the woman who had fired the shotgun blast.

“I expected… better… from you… Miranda,” said Blunt with a scratchy new throat.

She stood her ground, raked the shotgun and raised the weapon toward Blunt.

She gave a last look to Dave.

“Thank you for the splint and the kind words,” she said while nodding to him.

She tensed her arm to press the trigger again, but Blunt was faster—he smashed his fist down on her, breaking her neck as if a building had collapsed on her head.

The House shook hard, and the floor cracked under them.

🏛️

Thank God or not—the White House staff was still in the Solarium, watching outside as the sun rose higher.

“We have… to go!” said Harry, panting and not even bothering to take in the sights outside. “The house is… is crumbling!”

It was as if he’d snapped them out of a reverie—they took in the breaking windows, the objects having fallen on the floor. The House shook even worse than before.

“I want you…. to follow… my directions!” said Harry in between fast breaths.

His mind had already selected the quickest path outside the house. Not through the roof. This far up, there was nothing to do unless everyone was a trained acrobat—the fast emergency escape system was too slow and impractical for their numbers. They would need to hurry downstairs and take the North Portico door as quickly as they could. But that left them with two hundred yards of running to do.

“To the stairs!” he said, “To the left!”

🏛️

The House shook differently now—the tremors were more violent, more like pain spasms than earthquakes. He could hear structures collapsing—not objects, but walls and ceilings.

Without a mind to hold it together, the House was going feral.

Then, abruptly, the floor of the Blue Room cracked under them. 

It wasn’t a natural break—the entire central section fell down a story. 

Maybe parts of the House were still trying to help them. 

Other parts of the walls fell down, blocking the way to the outside, locking them into a small arena.

Which left them in the remnants of the ground floor’s Diplomatic Reception Room—a comparatively more closed-off space with far fewer exits. Dust hung thickly in the air as the showdown loomed.

As the three of them found their footing on the uneven debris, Blunt charged at Dave.

🏛️

“Keep going down the stairs!” said Harry.

“It’s blocked!” said Delilah.

She was right—the stairs Harry was counting on to get from the second floor to the Chief Usher’s office on the first floor were gone—blocked by falling debris and not something they’d be able to clean up while the house was falling apart on them. 

He immediately saw the alternative—dash through the central corridor, then the stairs landing and down. 

“This way!” he led. “Then through there and left!”

He counted them as they passed him. They would all make it out. No one left behind. No more Sonias.

“Holy shit!” shouted one of the kitchen staff.

Harry looked—the central corridor had spouted arms, who were trying to grab the staff and hold them close to the crumbling walls. Already, one of the burly kitchen crew had been grabbed and was unable to move.

🏛️

Dave easily sidestepped Blunt, swiping his side with a sword as he did—all movements choreographed by someone else, but which he found natural.

That was the essence of giving yourself up to her—any resistance would be an obstacle they could not afford at this time. He felt Lady Columbia, thinking a thousand times faster than they did, carefully positioning and repositioning them as Blunt rampaged across the room.

Sometimes they avoided him; sometimes they used their swords to poke him; sometimes they drew substantial blood through slices that didn’t stay open for a long time.

As the moments dragged on, Dave wondered about the strategy. Death by a thousand cuts?

Periodically, as they all danced around Blunt, Lady Columbia would throw a dagger up—which puzzled Dave, considering the ineffectiveness of the gesture.

Clearly, Columbia hadn’t opened up her entire mind to them. Or they were too dumb to be able to reach in. Dave already knew that there were limits to what he could understand of her mind—none bigger than the closed-off darkness of what she had done during the night. Even approaching it made him recoil in pain.

It will all make sense, reached out Columbia. Sooner than you think.

She was right—moments later, an entire ceiling fell on them.

🏛️

Slapping away the flailing arms coming out of the wall, Harry pressed forward.

“Let him go! We’re just trying to escape! We’re not responsible for this!”

He had seldom felt sillier than talking to the feral thrashing mind of the White House, but he was beyond embarrassment now.

Especially since the arms obeyed him and withdrew.

“Go now!” he shouted, and the staff did not wait—they rushed out of the central corridor, into the landing and then down the stairs.

Harry followed—in the footsteps of so many presidents who had gone up and down those stairs during their time at the White House. Not that the red-carpeted stairs felt as stately considering how they were crackling, stained by dust and covered with debris.

One of the kitchen crew tripped and fell on the floor—something Harry was surprised hadn’t happened earlier given the shaking, the debris and the speed at which they were running.

“Left at the bottom of the stairs!” he added uselessly—everyone knew where the North Portico doors were at this point.

He helped the fallen kitchen worker to his feet and kept going. They were so close now, so close…

By the time they were back in the Ground Foyer, he saw that the first members of their expedition had managed to open the door without electrocuting themselves and were out of the White House itself.

“Keep going! To the gate!”

As he exited the door, last in their expedition, he moved to the side as one of the columns of the Portico fell down. The entire structure was threatening to fall on their heads—and someone else tripped in front of him.

🏛️

Lady Columbia had them pull back right on time—a relatively small section of the floor fell, and it managed to hit Blunt squarely on the head, and only him.

The building shuddered again, and Blunt wasn’t out for the count—though wounded, he was clawing his way back from under the structure. His right hand emerged first, then he raised himself from under the rubble.

This is it, said Columbia. Prepare your weapons.

As Blunt looked ready to raise himself again, hands shot out of the debris and grabbed him. He struggled, but the fight had taken its toll—he was slowly but inevitably drawn back to the rubble. More hands shot out to grab him—two-yard-long arms, in some cases—all pinning him helplessly on his back against a semi-intact portion of the floor that was once two storeys above.

Blunt screamed.

Now, said Columbia.

Gabi struck her sword in Blunt’s chest, piercing the heart. She kept pushing until the hilt touched Blunt’s hemorrhaging chest.

Dave did the same in Blunt’s lower abdomen, driving his sword through his guts until it, too, pinned him to the hilt.

In one stroke, Lady Columbia drove her sword through his forehead, making sure the hilt stopped him from moving.

“This is not… over…” he said faintly.

Then the hands pinning him down were joined by other hands ripping him apart—piece by piece, the sharp nails and strong hands broke open his flesh, took away his innards, and snapped his bones. Blunt diminished, handful by handful. He faded away, pieces of him disappearing deep in a building crumbling upon itself.

Is it done? asked Dave. Could it be?

One more thing.

She snapped a dagger upwards and hit Blunt’s assistant, who had been watching from above. The man fell to the floor and groaned.

The shotgun that Miranda had used on Blunt fell to his side.

He grabbed it and offered it to Gabi.

New lesson from last night, he thought. In order for evil to stay dead, you have to take care of any potential for resurrection.

I was thinking the same thing, she remarked, and he knew it was true.

She took the shotgun and pressed it against the man’s forehead.

“This is for our friend Sonia.”

Then she fired.

🏛️

No one left behind, thought Harry again. Not a single loss is acceptable. Not on my watch.

As the North Portico crumbled around them, he took the fallen staff member and pulled him away—away from the Portico, away from the door to the White House, away from that goddamned building entirely.

The entire structure fell down as soon as they cleared it—blowing them farther out.

The man picked himself up, and Harry looked around.

All eight staff members had cleared the structure before it fell. All had survived.

The Portico’s celebrated triangular structure had fallen to the ground and was now blocking the front door of the White House, preventing anyone else from coming out.

Dave? Gabi?

We’re okay, he felt. Don’t worry about us.

Relieved, he turned away from the White House, toward the city.

“Oh shit,” he said.

🏛️

Dave suddenly felt himself again, and that was a curse more than a blessing—he couldn’t feel Gabi as he had, wasn’t part of the Trinity that Columbia had created.

He was alone again.

Well, maybe not alone, as Gabi hugged him.

The building shook again, and Columbia looked at the arms and hands coming out of the walls and floors.

Something cracked, and the room shrank around them.

“My work here is done,” said Lady Columbia with compassion more than triumph. “You will need to escape, but the House may not let you.”

That was worrying.

“I can help. Come closer.”

As instructed, Dave and Gabi drew closer to Columbia’s head.

She took Gabi’s head in her hands and kissed her deeply.

What?

Then she released a dazed Gabi and turned to him. Taking his head between her hands, she kissed him in turn.

It was, with apologies to Gabi, the best kiss he’d ever experienced in his life. He felt her saliva exchange with his, the softness of her hands on his skin, and her infinite love offered for a brief instant.

The House will now recognize you as me, he heard.

But she couldn’t hide something from him—naughty excitement at doing what was necessary through something that was pleasant.

She broke off the kiss.

“You will need to escape through the West Colonnade,” she said.

“How about you?”

“I will keep an eye on my children. All of them.”

She put her hand on Gabi’s belly.

“I want you to do the same. Take care of her. She will be important.”

Then she nodded at them with a smile and faded away.

The building’s rumbling and a few heavy chunks of debris reminded them that they weren’t out of danger yet.

Taking Gabi’s hand, Dave moved to the ground floor’s central corridor. 

Turning left, they rushed through the central corridor all the way to the doors leading to the Palm Room. With a tremendous noise, the corridor visibly shrank around them, but did not block their passage.

Dave looked back and the way they had taken was fast disappearing—a mixture of destruction and shrinkage.

They naturally turned toward the door to the right, but then Dave remembered Columbia’s instructions to head to the West Wing colonnade, which was to the left.

The room crumbled around them, but they were not hit by debris, nor did they have any problem opening the door. They passed through the exit and saw, in front of them, the outside of the house—the patio that was the Rose Garden, and then, in front of them, the South Lawn of the White House.

They ran. Behind them, the White House groaned as it shed debris and crumbled upon itself. The third floor pancaked onto the second, and then the second on the first, sending a blast of dusty air their way.

Still, they ran, getting away as far as they could. The noise did not diminish—the house was grinding itself to dust, columns and pillars reduced to fragments and debris.

Midway through the South Lawn. Dave and Gabi slowed down and looked back.

The House was already much lower than it used to be. The last columns of the famous South Portico fell inward, sucked toward the building.

Dave barely had any time to comment on the strange sight that the entire building imploded on itself—the east and west wings pulled toward the executive residence, the entire building growing smaller and smaller.

Then, as if sucked into a black hole, the house disappeared with a Pop!

Dave put his arm around Gabi and Gabi around Dave.

“Wow, I think we made it.”

“So did Harry.”

“I know.”

They stared a long time at the hole left in the ground by the disappeared White House. They saw that parts of the North Lawn near the West Wing were falling into the ground—the missing DUCC, no doubt. Hence escaping through the South Lawn.

“So,” eventually said Dave, while smelling Lady Columbia’s perfume on his lips, “Am I right in thinking that we just had a threesome with the Spirit of America itself?”

“The nice part of America, yes,” agreed Gabi. “Let’s agree that it was the last one, all right?”

He hugged her closer.

“I’m good, thanks.”

They stood in silence for another moment.

“Tell me you recorded all of this.”

“I recorded all of this.”

 

 

Epilogue — Outside the House

As Gabi and Dave walked away from the White House, they did not know many things that they would later find out.

They knew, from the plumes of smoke and sirens heard around the White House, that something bad happened during the night. As they later realized, Lady Columbia had been absent from the White House because she had been elsewhere completing the promised cleansing.

Roughly thirty-five percent of American citizens disappeared that night. One hundred and twenty million people.  From reports of those who were present, some exploded messily. Some shrank to nothingness. Some dried out, their husks left in place. Some were cut in pieces.

The culling was less severe for the younger people—practically no one under twelve was culled and only twenty percent of eighteen-year-olds. It wasn’t solely on partisan lines, but it was much higher for those who had enthusiastically supported Blunt. All billionaires and most multi-millionaires disappeared, the cut-off later being calculated at a symbolic multiplier of the federal minimum wage. Most of the staff of politically extreme media were culled, leading to their immediate shutdown. Some families were entirely wiped out—but many were largely spared, only missing the overly racist uncle that made everyone’s lives a living hell during family gatherings. The culling was often more severe in southern states and rural areas, but did not spare cities. The survivors agreed that the culled had been unpleasant, destructive people—actively malevolent, deliberately misinformed or intentionally offensive.

Lady Columbia’s culling had not been flawless, as evidenced by how America later another five percent of its population in the following months. The country struggled to operate. Some industries were almost entirely decimated, and few CEOs survived the night. Food production was impossible; trucking ground to a halt, many trades amputated of three quarters of their workforce. Prisons proportionally lost more guards than inmates. Many died during the lean, difficult months that followed.

The US federal government struggled to fill up the power vacuum left by its entire line of succession being wiped out. Many of the northern states openly petitioned Canada for annexation. Canada uneasily compromised by setting out a temporary five-year territorial agreement with states who voted in favour, and found itself responsible for another fifty million people. Canadians helped rationalize logistics across the northern states, enabling a universal health care framework and did such a stellar job that not all states returned to the Union five years later.

The America that slowly, painfully rose from The Culling was, by any reckoning, a better country—smaller, but more cohesive. Quieter, but more determined. The predicted civil war never took place and neither did the nuclear war of their nightmares—a new union rose instead, far closer to the collective ideals of the early days of the republic than the capitalistic monster that it had become throughout the twentieth century. Once again, countries looked at the American model as a beacon of hope. Initial fears that an American power vacuum would lead to a more chaotic world order did not pan out—largely because countries looked at the American culling and reasoned: could it happen to them if they followed in those footsteps?

As for Dave and Gabi, their lives were chaotic for a few days as Washington, DC reacted to the culling. Thanks to Harry and Delilah, they ended up getting a car and driving back to Canada in a mad dash.

Their trepidation about being witnesses, even participants in the events that took place at the White House was quickly resolved by the new might of the Canadian government. The day after getting back home, a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman from “A division of Library and Archives Canada” knocked at their door and suggested that she could help them.

Over the next few days, they turned over their recordings, extensively debriefed with members of the Canadian government’s occult directorate, and arranged for the anonymity they wanted. They were reassured that the events in the White House were seen as being part of the Culling, and they would be able to go back to a life of blissful ordinariness.

Months later, Dave and Gabi published one more video on their channel—a retirement announcement, along with the news that Gabi was pregnant and both were now focusing on post-production work.

Years later, they were not surprised to find out that their daughter handily earned the title of class president through unanimous acclaim—a pattern that she would sustain for years. Teachers unanimously praised her empathy, her compassion, her skill at interpersonal relationships and her passion for resolving underdog injustices.

Dave and Gabi nodded, never volunteering the circumstances of their daughter’s conception nor her very special godmother.

But that was all in the future. For now, as Dave and Gabi strolled across the South Lawn of the White House, they only suspected that everything would get better.

Sacrifices had been made.

 

= THE END =