The Killing Floor (11 page)

Fielding laughs. “Who indeed?”

Travis is already tired of the sparring. A few weeks ago, he would have been terrified of a man like Fielding, and in fact was at their first meeting. Now Travis has real problems that make Fielding seem like small fish.

“So why are you here?”

“I’m here for you.”

“Let’s go into my office, then. Do you want some coffee?”

Fielding gets off the desk and stands erect, an imposing figure. “No time, Doc,” he says. “Do you still have your suit? The one you wore the day you came here?”

The suit is neatly folded in Travis’s locker. It still smells like fear.

“What’s this about?”

“Doc,” Fielding says, grinning, “you’re going to meet the President of the United States.”

♦

Travis remembers the first time he entered the White House. He tingled as he presented his credentials. A young, attractive aide led him to where he would be working. He glanced into private offices as he followed the woman down the hall and was surprised to see average people hunched over computers in tiny offices, hacking away at keyboards. Phones chirped discordantly, the sound muffled by the carpeted floor. File cabinets bulged with yellowing paper. If he didn’t know where he was, he would have guessed he was in some kind of old, regal, shabby hotel converted into offices for law clerks paid to make deals. And yet that breathless 9/11 feeling permeated the building; the White House was a massive
zeitgeist
generator. Travis felt connected to mighty levers that turned the world. Even on days the President was traveling and not much was happening, each day felt like the cusp of history.

Travis never met the President, however. Not for two years. The closest he came was when the White House needed some warm bodies for a press photo.

Now, it seems, President Andrew Walker wants to meet
him
.

He remembers how strange it was. Often one meets a famous actor and later remarks at how much smaller he is in real life than he appears to be in his films. But the President seemed even larger to Travis. He is a giant of a man, making everyone around him appear insubstantial.

Fielding studies him with an expression of subtle amusement. The secretaries stare. One takes off her glasses and squints as if trying to see something in Travis she hadn’t seen before, something she’d missed.

“I don’t understand,” Travis says.

Fielding acknowledges the women with a nod and gestures toward the door.

“Let’s get a move on, Doc.”

Outside in the corridor, Fielding walks a step behind Travis, his eyes never leaving him.

“Am I under arrest or something?”

“No,” Fielding tells him. “You would know if you were.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m under arrest?”

“I’ve seen you in action, Doc. You’re a slippery one. I’m going to keep an eye on you.”

“Slippery,” Travis says, the word bitter on his tongue.
It’s not my fault she got left behind
, he wants to scream.
There wasn’t enough transport for everyone. The agent pushed her off. It wasn’t me.
“If you’re the good guy, what are you doing down here? Why aren’t you out there saving the world?”

“That’s what Roberts did—remember him? Stayed behind to look for his wife. Haven’t seen him since. There’s plenty of work around here for a guy like me, Doc.”

“The fact is that the only person who’s going to save the world is someone like me.”

“God help us, then.”

“I’m not joking. You know the military is in Washington. But do you know how many buildings there are in the city? How many people lived there who became infected? We’re throwing what’s left of our military into a meat grinder. There aren’t enough bullets, Fielding. There aren’t enough soldiers. We’re going to lose.”

Fielding says nothing, regarding Travis with narrowed eyes.

“Bullets can’t fix this,” Travis says. “Only science can. We just have to figure it out.”

“All right, Doc,” Fielding says, ending the conversation.

They enter the mass transit station, Travis glancing at the spot where the girl mouthed
Save me
before dissipating in the path of the train. Fielding sees him shudder but says nothing. They board an outgoing monorail, which drops them off near the dormitories. Travis’s dorm is a large open space packed with cots on which men sleep in the dull glow of a few red light bulbs and exit signs hanging from the ceiling. So few cots are available that people use them in shifts. In four hours, according to the clock set to military time, Travis will be able to use his cot again for sleep, first brushing the other man’s dandruff off the pillow they share.

In the locker room, Travis changes into his suit, shirt and tie, still wrinkled and smelling a bit gamey. It will have to do. One does not visit the President of the United States wearing an orange coverall like a penitentiary inmate.

“Very presentable, Doc,” Fielding says, inspecting his nails.

Travis unravels his tie and tries again, eyeing his reflection in a small mirror. Women often told him he was good looking, even though his social awkwardness and general lack of interest otherwise kept them at bay. Now he appears downright frightening. His stubbled face is pale and his eyes look dead.

“Can you at least tell me what this is about?” he asks.

Fielding shrugs. “Don’t know, actually. Policy is your field. But I would suspect it’s not a social call. Whatever you’re working on regarding Wildfire, the Boss thinks it’s important.”

Travis experiences a sudden flash of panic.
Does the President expect me to make a presentation on my research now? Why didn’t the Director tell me about this?

Outside the dormitory, the two men walk east along the crowded sidewalks framing a main road leading into the heart of Area B. People come here to stroll because of the high ceiling and extra lighting. Travis wonders if he should take the President’s interest as a good sign. His theories are controversial and have not been accepted by what passes for the scientific establishment down here. Maybe they’re ready to hear him out and give him some real resources.

Earth is being colonized. Not just colonized, but terraformed. The Earth is, to put it plainly, infected. And humans, other life forms? Fertile soil.

The prevailing theory is humans did this to themselves. People tinkering with nanotechnology. Bioweapons designers creating a beast they could not control. The beast escaped its cage, replicated using resources in the natural environment, and covered the planet within days. Once the nano reached a critical mass, one out of five people fell down screaming within hours of each other. The Wildfire contagion descended from this original nano. End of theory.

The problem is they can’t find it. For that matter, they can’t find evidence of whether Wildfire is a molecular engine or virus or a bacterium. They keep testing and cutting open bodies looking for it, without result. The theory also does not explain the monsters.

Travis has been championing an alien colonization theory. Earth has been seeded with biological software that responds differently to various genetic markers. Spores, in other words. A bit of seemingly harmless organic matter clinging to a falling meteor that thrived and spread and entered the global food chain and, eventually, its resident species. Some people fell down screaming while others did not. Some life forms were transformed into monsters, others not.

This is not to say evil humanoids with big gray heads are flying around in spaceships, manipulating these tragic events. Travis suspects Wildfire is not intelligent in the way most people would define it. He believes it may simply be an adaptive, self-designing but otherwise mindless extraterrestrial life form. Not quite colonization, not an invasion as it would typically be defined, but instead a viral entity, one that infects planets. In people and animals, it disguises itself as a normal virus or bacteria and is only triggered by certain genetic markers.

What this means, of course, is that everyone is infected in one form or another.

It also means the only way to unmask the Wildfire Agent is to examine a huge number of cells. This would take many months even if Travis had the resources he wanted.

What he really needs is a pure sample of Wildfire. If they could get that, they would have a solid chance to win this fight.

An electric jeep whirs up to the curb, driven by a soldier dressed similarly to Fielding, and parks.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” the soldier says, addressing Fielding.

Fielding gestures to the backseat. “Hop in, Doc. Mustn’t keep POTUS waiting.”

♦

Wearing his old suit and riding in a car makes him feel normal again after weeks of living like an inmate in a dystopian prison. The breeze on his face raises his spirits.

The jeep halts in front of a wide, bright passage leading to a gleaming vault door guarded by more soldiers in black body armor. One of them, a tall, athletic woman wearing a black beret and a large handgun on her hip, approaches the vehicle.

“End of the line, Doc,” Fielding says.

“What’s this place?” Travis says, trying to control his sudden panic.

“This,” Fielding says with a grand gesture, “is the Executive Branch.”

“Dr. Price,” the woman says. “I am Lieutenant Lateesha Sanchez.”

She extends her gloved hand and helps him from the jeep.

“Good luck with that saving the world thing,” Fielding tells him.

Looking at Sanchez’s phony smile, Travis is a little sorry to see Fielding go. They may hate each other, but at least everything between them is out in the open.

Before he can say a word, the jeep lurches back onto the street.

“Come with me, please,” Sanchez says, motioning toward the massive door, which the soldiers are pulling open, their machine guns slung over their shoulders.

They enter a long white corridor, dim but regularly cleaned; the floor glistens from a recent waxing. The air is fresher here, with no random pockets of hot or cold air, no sudden blasts from a filthy ventilation duct. Portraits of past presidents, liberated from the White House, adorn the otherwise blank walls, like placeholders for ghosts.

“What’s behind these doors?” he asks, his voice loud in his ears. He pictures large control centers like the bridge of a starship or the set of the old TV show
24
, with lots of people hunched over various stations.

“That’s not your concern, sir,” Sanchez says.

Travis glances at a sign reading, EAS STUDIO. The Emergency Alert System. The President can talk to the entire country from here by radio or TV. He can also override or turn off any local broadcasting he does not like.

President Walker’s emergency powers give him the power of a dictator.

“Everything is so clean here,” Travis says. “Even the air. Do you get to live here?”

“I am not authorized to discuss anything with you, sir,” Sanchez tells him.

More corridors, more doors, until Travis becomes convinced they are walking in circles. A door slams and a group of people in suits scuttle from one room to another. Black-armored soldiers scrutinize his ID at checkpoints and wave him through.

She finally stops at a door; the nameplate reads FRANKLIN ROOM.

“This is Lieutenant Sanchez,” she says into her headset. “Package Papa Three is delivered.” With a final smile, she adds, “This is your stop, Dr. Price.”

Travis taps on the door and opens it, peering inside at what appears to be some sort of waiting area filled with men in suits clutching briefcases.

“I was told to come here,” he says.

The men take in his stubbled face and wrinkled suit with contempt. Two large men stand in front of a second set of doors on the other side of the room, giving him a quick once-over. Travis surmises these are Secret Service agents, the last of the old Praetorians.

These doors open and an older, balding man peers at him over the rims of his glasses. Travis recognizes him as Terry Goodall, the Director of the Office of Science and Technology Policy. His boss.

“Ah, Travis,” Goodall says. “Come on in. We’re ready for you.”

Travis walks across the waiting room, trying to ignore the baleful stares of the other men. “What’s all this about, Terry?”

Goodall reaches and grips his arm. “You are about to meet the President of the United States, who at this moment is under a lot of pressure and has more power than Caligula,” he hisses close to Travis’s ear. “We all understand you do not have prepared remarks. Just play off the slides provided and answer the questions as best you can. It’s all in your field of expertise. Okay?”

“I guess it will have to be,” Travis mutters.

Goodall eyes him. “Don’t screw this up, Travis.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“You look like shit. The least you could have done was gotten yourself cleaned up.”

Travis shakes his head. “No time.”

Goodall grunts and ushers him into a bright room. At first all Travis can do is stand at the threshold, half blinded by the sudden change in light, blinking tears.