A graduate from the Bush school of diplomacy, Roderick allegedly opposed President Sarandon’s light- handed approach to politics and non-confrontational attitude to policing the world’s hot spots. He was a closet megalomaniac who was so incensed by Sarandon’s repealing of numerous laws he had personally shepherded through congress, it was rumored he had come close to demanding an impeachment on several occasions.
In an expose after his retirement, he was portrayed as a dangerous man with expansionist ideals, a potential warmonger who had only been kept in check by the powerful personality of President Sarandon. A biographer would later quote one source as saying
“The man was…
Of course, there were other complications to the political scene that had not immediately been apparent.
In 2042, the President had been — would be? Could be? — Jerome Faulkner, the second African American president. He was a well liked man, nothing remarkable to his Presidency, but at least he wasn’t interested in forcing ‘American values’ down the throat of the rest of the world, whether they wanted it or not.
He was the duly elected president, but of course, he was not going to actually
“How the hell will they deal with
“It’s beside the point,” Thomas said. “How old was he when he was elected? Forty? Forty-five?”
Jim nodded that the figure was close enough and after a pause while he digested what Thomas was getting at, realized his point. Somewhere out there, in Maine if he remembered correctly, the man who would in the future history of the world, be elected president was now eighteen years old.
“Strange times,” said Thomas as he saw the realization spread over Jim’s face. “Strange times indeed.”
It had been a strange day that had moved into a surreal night. Eventually, exhaustion and fatigue flowed over Jim’s body like a wave, and he excused himself.
“Goodnight James,” said Thomas, as Jessica hugged him and whispered in his ear, “In case all of this is gone in the morning.”
Nineteen
Rebecca was not surprised when her parents had informed her in hushed tones that her nightmare had in fact
Her mother and father, sitting across the breakfast table in the cramped kitchen of their doublewide, must have realized that her thoughts had strayed again because mom reached out and quickly took her daughter’s hand in her own, toppling the bottle of maple syrup that they had just used with their pancake breakfast.
“Are you okay Becky,” she asked, concern stitched across her face.
Rebecca swallowed hard and managed a weak smile. I probably look like a corpse grinning, she thought to herself.
She pushed the images of the glinting knife out of her head and asked her question again, “Please Dad, tell me what happened. I need to know.”
It had been three days since Becky had found herself so suddenly back in her childhood bedroom: three days of utter confusion, not only for her but also for the entire world.
Nobody really knew what was going on — even though the provisional government would have liked everybody to believe that they had some idea — but at least there was some kind of television coverage now. On the first day, there had been virtually nothing, but now the networks were getting their act together and most of the channels that had been nothing but static or automated broadcasts were broadcasting coverage of the
It was odd to contrast the images beaming into the Lacey home to the peaceful almost tranquil oasis of small town Pahrump, Nevada. A little less than sixty miles west of Las Vegas, this hardscrabble town of forty thousand was isolated on all sides by mountain ranges and desert.
There was no airport to speak of, just a private strip that saw the occasional light aircraft flying in or out. There was a hospital that, according to Dr. Weaver who lived a few doors down from Becky and her family, had seen only a few cases on the day of the event;
a couple of heart attacks (one of those turned out to be just a mild case of angina) and a car wreck or two. Amazingly, there were no fatalities and certainly nothing to compare to the devastation that the other metropolitan areas of the U.S. had suffered. Becky had also learned from Doc Weaver that she wasn’t the only resurectee in town. There were others who had ‘passed away’ as the gentle doctor put it, only to find themselves alive again. For some reason unknown to Becky this news relieved a stress she hadn’t known was there until it was gone.
Looking south through the kitchen window of her parents double-wide, past the backyard towards Mount Charleston she could still see the cloud of smoke that had gathered in the sky over Las Vegas.
The city of sin had been hit hard. McCarran International had been devastated and most of the hotels that lined the strip close by had been destroyed when an incoming jet had cart-wheeled through the main terminus and over into the nearest casino. The resulting fire had swept through the town taking most of the classic landmarks and reducing them to ashes and skeletal beams that jutted into the sky, the fire so voracious it had quickly overwhelmed the confused and lost L.V. Fire department.
Then had come three days of her parents avoiding her questions.
Now she pushed the question home, “Mom. Dad. Please? I need to know,” she repeated. Her parents regarded each other across the breakfast table. Finally, after a long moment of speechless communication, a pale Kimberly Lacey nodded faintly to her husband and he turned and explained what had happened to his daughter.
As her father spoke, Rebecca confirmed most of what the cops had pieced together by themselves: the night out with friends, the club where she and her friends met for the evening, talking and laughing. And when the night was over, Rebecca had hailed a cab outside the bar and taken it home to her modest apartment. Her last memory before she found herself immersed in her nightmare had been pushing the key into the lock that would open the security gate that kept out unwanted visitors from the grounds of the apartment building. Everything after that was a confused mess of images and thoughts.
The very last thing she remembered with any clarity was laying on her kitchen table… and the man. And the knife. She remembered the knife.
Her Father filled in the blanks while her mother sat stone-faced, tears slipping down her pale cheeks.
“The police think that he followed you home,” her father said choking back a sob before continuing. “From the autopsy report they think that he hit you with something while you were trying to get through the security gate. They found some of your blood on the ground near the gate and you had a blunt-force trauma to the back of your head.” He reached up and tapped the corresponding spot on the back of his own head.
“The officer from LAPD said that whoever had done this to you had carried you to your room. They thought that he had been watching you for weeks, that it might even be somebody that you knew.”
“I didn’t know him,” Becky interjected, “I saw his face. I didn’t recognize him.”
Becky watched her father take a deep gulp of air and hold it before continuing his account.
“Somebody from the apartment called the police because… because… it was five days before anybody knew you were missing and…” Mr. Lacey scrambled to find the right words, “There were complaints from your neighbors. They thought that maybe the sewers had backed up. When the apartment manager opened up your door, that’s when they found you and called the police.
“That was ten years ago, sweetheart. Not one day has gone by that we haven’t talked about you. We were,
