Last Light Falling (38 page)

Just behind an old, derelict apartment building, the street ends, but it’s as good a place as any to stop. It’s deserted, but more importantly, unguarded.

“Henry, park the car on the side street in front of the north lawn of the White House and wait. We have a couple of hours before the event starts,” Finnegan says.

“What about security?” Henry asks.

“The north lawn will have a few guards, but it’s the south lawn that will bring more attention. I wouldn’t worry too much, There hasn’t been much of a need for security around here, not anymore.

“I don’t like the idea of this,” Juliana says.

“Don’t worry, just stay in the car and lock the doors,” I say.

When Henry and Juliana drive off, I catch a small glimpse of worry painted on Gabe’s face. Being separated from her when we started this journey was bad enough. I don’t know how this small departure will affect him now.

A city that should be thriving, considering it is the nation’s capital, is riddled with more famine and homelessness than where we live. Outside the city, the streets are crippled with barricades, and the deteriorating buildings that have been abandoned can barely stand, let alone suffice as livable space.

Most of the city has fallen into a desolate state like many others around the nation. The only place left with a semblance of stately pride is the east and west mall and most of the central DC area. Everything else is in complete ruin. The towering twenty-foot fence that borders the city tells a much grimmer story. Where concrete and hopelessness dominates this side of the fence, the grass is greener on the other.

The wickedness that permeates this very area breeds a virus that can’t be controlled. I look around at the disheveled faces, knowing their only means of survival is the hope that someone will save them from this destitute. They can’t possibly have a sustainable life living with these conditions. If this city wasn’t already a hellhole before, it’s definitely a cesspool of filth now.

After a thorough view of the depressing surroundings, I can see why these people never try to access the other side of the fence; about every hundred yards, a camera sits atop, monitoring all activity below. The fence is much too tall for these poor prisoners to have the strength to scale it, and even if they did succeed, what’s the point of communing in the same place where you are not wanted? Sooner or later, they would be sent back over, or worse … killed.

I would like to avoid any governmental entanglements at the checkpoints, so the only way for us to get in is to cut through the fence. Gabe and I hide behind one of the buildings while Finnegan concentrates on shooting the camera in front of us. We’ll have to hurry through once the camera feed stops and someone notices.

After three shots, the camera finally shatters and is left dangling from the top of the fence. Without wasting time, Gabe quickly cuts a half-circle flap in the chain links large enough for us to push through.

We rush through and cross a twenty-yard gap between the fence and a federal bank. The streets seem to be hopping with happier faces on this side of the border. This is the first time we have been to a city that doesn’t seem to be under attack or swarming with federal officers, which seems rather ironic, considering where we are.

We may appear to be a little out of place with our attire, but with the plethora of people walking about, we will blend in just enough not to cause a stir. At least the black cloak conceals my weapons; Finnegan and Gabe awkwardly try to hide theirs under their thick jackets.

Finnegan leads us down a few blocks, where rows of legal offices, executive buildings, and government agencies dominate the scenery. We turn down 22nd Street toward George Washington University, where he takes us to the Melvin Gelman Library to discuss our plan of action. If anybody knows this city, it’s Finnegan; he used to frequent this town while he worked for the enemy, which gives us a slight advantage.

Apparently crime hasn’t been a major concern in this area, because all the metal detectors have been removed from the entryways—an abnormality compared to the rest of the country. We ride the elevators to the Special Collections Center on the seventh floor, where we can get a grand view of the city below.

“We have a few options, but they are all risky, some more than others,” says Finnegan.

“I say we just walk through the front doors; security around here is a joke,” I say.

“Yes, but we want to try to avoid a massive scene that could possibly hinder us later,” says Finnegan.

“What about underground? I’m sure you have walked through some of the rumored tunnels to the White House at some point in your career,” says Gabe.

“There are many secret passages, but each tunnel is still heavily secured, and we would have to get through building security first before even thinking about getting down to the tunnels,” Finnegan says, smiling.

“There is, however, more than one way to penetrate the underbelly of this city,” he says.

Finnegan points out the importance of Pennsylvania Avenue, which runs parallel to one of many underground tunnels that connect to the White House.

“There is one way into the tunnels with no imminent security present, but we won’t be able to just walk through the door,” says Finnegan.

“I’m not following,” says Gabe.

“Just below Pennsylvania Avenue is a sewer system that runs parallel to the street and intertwines around the secret passages, but there is one tunnel that connects to the sewer outflow section. It won’t be guarded, but the connecting steel entry will be locked on both sides,” he says.

“C4,” Gabe responds, as he pats the side of his backpack.

“Just be careful how much you use. We just want to break the locks, not the door off its hinges,” says Finnegan with a smirk. “Just remember, once we get into the tunnel, the cameras will be monitoring us all the way. Don’t do anything unless we are forced to. And when that does happen, be prepared because all hell will break loose.”

We leave the library and patiently wait in the University courtyard while Finnegan does some reconnaissance a few blocks away. The sun begins to hide behind the horizon and gives way to the cool night air. Finnegan finally returns to the courtyard, holding a steel rod.

“This is the result of your reconnaissance?” I ask, pointing at the bent steel bar he’s holding. “You’ve been gone for nearly two hours.”

“Unless you can pull a two-hundred-fifty pound cast iron manhole cover with your fingers, I would advise you to thank me for hunting down this hard-to-find tool. I had to walk six blocks before I could find a sewer utility truck,” he says.

“So you stole that one?” Gabe says.

“I’m just borrowing it, thank you.”

“Under the assumption you’ll be returning it to its rightful owner?” I ask, smiling.

Night falls and the banquet has already started as we descend below the street through the sewer opening unnoticed. The smell is ferocious down here and would be well-suited for someone who appreciates the finer qualities of fuming feces.

I cover my mouth as we press against the sides of the walls, following closely behind Finnegan. Aside from the intolerable smell, this plan actually seems promising. After walking nearly four city blocks beneath the street, we come to a bend in the tunnel where a large opening stretches in another direction. Catwalks wander across the opening and meander around the tunnel next to a large overspill drainage channel. Signs punctuate the walls with the appropriate street names above, along with directions to each intersection.

Across the opening is a small concrete building with a sign that reads,
Utility Operations,
outside a steel door.

“This is it,” says Finnegan.

Gabe reaches in his bag for some explosives, but I stop him and point my gun toward the keyhole and shoot. “No need to wake everyone up.”

One shot and one broken lock gets us that much closer to the tunnel. We walk inside the enclosed concrete space and find nothing but an unoccupied room in disarray. An unorganized desk of papers, logs, and candy wrappers clutter most of this claustrophobic office that resembles more of a pigsty.

There are several screens above the desk, monitoring major underground intersections. There is an unlocked door in the back that leads down a small corridor to a much more secured door with a card-badge lock.

“This is it. This is the door that passes through the main tunnel,” Finnegan says. Gabe digs in his bag for some plastic explosives to blast the lock, but all of a sudden, a voice rings out from the front of the room.

“Anyone in here? Dave is that you back there?” the man says.

I stand behind the door as the man cautiously approaches with his gun drawn in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. “Dave, if you’re pissed about the back hair remark, I’m truly sorry. Not all of us can be as manly as you,” he says, as he slowly pushes the door open. “All right, stop messing around.”

As the door opens far enough to shed light on Finnegan and Gabe, I quickly snatch the gun from the man’s hand and throw him to the floor. I cock back his gun and point it at his head.

“Please, don’t shoot, I’m just the night guard, I have nothing. I barely make a wage worthy of this bag of chips. Please, please don’t shoot,” he cries.

I open up the cylinder on his revolver and find it completely empty. “Why aren’t there bullets in here?” I ask.

“I haven’t earned them yet, hell, I’m not even supposed to have a gun,” he whimpers.

“Stand up! What kind of night guard are you?” I ask.

“Apparently the kind who nearly soils his pants,” he admits. He stands there with his hands up, half his shirttail un-tucked, mustard stains on his uniform, and his gut hanging out in front. He’s obviously just trying to make ends meet with this job, but nevertheless, I still trust no one.

I make sure he’s not armed with any other weapons for his sake, not ours; I don’t want him hurting himself. I glance at his badge on his front pocket that reads:
Harold.
“Okay, Harold, can you get us through that door?” I ask, pointing to the badge lock.

“Yes, but what do you intend on doing?”

“You get us through that door and through the tunnel on the other side, and I can assure that you should live,” I say.

“Should?
That doesn’t sound convincing,” he says.

Before Harold slides his security card across the lock, Finnegan tells us that he and Henry will meet us on the outside by the north lawn fountain. “I will set up outside and try to draw any officers guarding the perimeter away from you. Good luck,” he says.

Harold slides his card through, and like magic the door opens to a stark-white hall that stretches in both directions. “Take us to the White House and remember our deal,” I advise firmly. We follow the long corridor to the right, while cameras spaced out every so often look down at us from above the ceiling tiles.

As we come to the end of the hall, we are met by an officer dressed in black, holding an automatic weapon. He stands tall, guarding another door with a badge lock. “State your business,” he says in a rough voice.

“I just wanted to show my girlfriend and her brother around,” Harold says, as he looks back at me and winks.

“No unauthorized personnel can pass through this door without approval. You know this already,” he says.

Harold whispers in the man’s ear, “Dude, come on, help me out here. I’m trying to impress the girl. If I’m lucky, I might score tonight,” he says, smiling.

The officer takes a closer look at me and pulls back my hood. He then radios to his coordinator. “63 to base, do you copy?” he says, eyeing me strangely. “Let me see some identification,” he says as a voice calls back on the radio, “go ahead 63.”

I take one look at Gabe, and the fright on his face reassures me what I’m about to do next. I abruptly push down the guard’s gun and quickly thrust the back end of my gun to his nose, breaking it and sending him to the floor. I draw my gun to his head while Gabe searches for his security badge. Harold begins to have a panic attack as he places himself in the corner by the door in shock.

“Sweet Jesus, I think he just wanted to see your driver’s license,” Harold says, shaking. While Gabe grabs the badge to open the entry before us, the officer starts to come to and pulls his gun toward Gabe’s back. I quickly draw my guns, kicking Gabe out of the way, and shooting the officer in the head.

“Oh my God, did you just shoot that man in the head? Did you see that, she just shot him! Oh God we’re gonna die, we’re gonna die,” Harold nervously sputters.

“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to shoot
you
in the head,” I say.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I got to get another job, this job totally sucks, but then if I do, of course my mother is just gonna stick it to me again about how Harold can’t keep a job, why can’t you be like your brother, Harold why don’t you—”

“Shut up!” I say, knocking him in the ear.

“Ouch! What the hell? Next time just say please, there’s really no need to hit me,” he whines. I have no intentions of killing this guy, but if he labors any more over every minute detail about his mother, I may have to reconsider.

We race down the tunnel that takes us through a large open area of pipes, ducts, and wires dangling from the ceiling. There are catwalks that wind in every direction, and large mechanical machinery that emits noise so loud, I can’t hear myself talk. As the tunnel winds around, the noise soon dissipates, but we are suddenly slowed down by loud footsteps hurrying down the metal stairs just around the corner.

I see three officers scuffing the bottom of their boots on the slick, waxy floor, frantically running in our direction. Before they even know it, I pop off three rounds, killing them as they round the corner where we are pressed against the concrete walls.

We come to the end, where a massive freight elevator stands before us. Gabe slides the security card across the elevator sensor as we anxiously await with our guns drawn at the doors. The bell rings, the button lights up, and the doors slide open to an empty elevator, which we take to the only floor available—the ground.