Midnight by Anna Dove (books for new readers .TXT) 📕

President Gilman stared at Reed, as the man spoke solemnly, and the president raised his fingertips to his temples and pressed them to his forehead in an unconscious effort to relieve the unspeakable pressure.

“So you are an advocate, then, of Darwinism. Let the fit survive, let the strong kill the weak, let the legacy of the country be demolished?” snapped Gilman.

“I am a realist, sir.”

A very, very long pause.

“Sir, I am in agreement with Mr. Reed,” suddenly spoke General Braddock. “You—we, rather, we—cannot do anything that would actually be effective. There is what we wish for, which is sending in men to control the situation, to decrease crime, to halt the criminal behavior. But Sir. This is effectually impossible. With the increasing number of defecting soldiers, the increasing mentality of self-preservation above all, it is logistically impossible to control the consequences of the EMP.”

Senator McCraiben cleared his throat.

“Are we sure of this?”

As the Senator spoke, the President glanced at him and then back at General Braddock.

“Sure,” said General Braddock slowly and in a low tone. “I know that this opinion sounds inhumane. I know that it involves allowing the mass murder of those who cannot fend for themselves.”

“No.” said President Gilman, standing up suddenly and banging his fist on the table. “No. I refuse to stand by and watch while my country strangles itself. Goddamnit, Braddock. What were you hired for? Make yourself goddamn useful. Why are you standing here talking shit while people die left and right above ground. For gods sake, rally your men. Stop them from leaving you. Tell them you’ll shoot if they take one step backwards.”

“Sir, that approach has not been enacted since the Second World War, and even then it was the Russians,” responded General Braddock immediately, coolly. “You are asking me to risk my own men’s lives by the thousands—I can no longer feed them, pay them—you’re asking me to risk that just to prevent crime.”

“Not to prevent crime. To prevent the destruction of this country.”

“Death and destruction are not the same thing, Sir,” said Braddock, his blue eyes fixed on the President.

President Gilman stood, his frame still, his hands clutching the edge of the desk so hard that his knuckles had lost all of their color. Then, he sat down.

“So death is preferable to destruction,” he said.

“Yes, Sir,” said Braddock.

“And by sacrificing the many, we save the few who will carry forward.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Braddock slowly.

Grim faces all around the table. The Senator’s eyebrows furrowed deeply as he watched Braddock but he held his tongue.

“I think, sir,” said Damion Perkins, his dark eyes fixed on the President, “that it would be better to focus internationally at this point in time. To work to preserve the global financial markets and prevent economic Armageddon. Let the domestic turmoil come to an end naturally. Otherwise you put at risk the lives of the military and law enforcement, who you will need desperately when it comes to the reconstruction period that will soon be coming. That is what I recommend on behalf of the intelligence community.”

“So,” the President responded wearily after a moment, having looked around the table at the grim faces, “intelligence, military, security back this next step. I want to hear from Senator McCraiben. What do you think?”

“I am no longer in a position to influence military procedure, sir. I am now a civilian.”

McCraiben saw from the corner of his eye that Damion Perkins breathed a barely perceptible, slow breath, a sigh.

“I know that. I’m still asking you. You were almost a General.”

“I was almost a General and you sit in a room with true Generals. Whose opinion matters more?”

The president gave him a long look, and McCraiben remained expressionless, his own eyes meeting the president’s. After a few seconds, the president nodded and dropped his gaze as if defeated.

“Carry it out as you all have suggested,” he said abruptly, and standing up, left the room.

14.  Annapolis

“In poverty and other misfortunes of life, true friends are a sure refuge.”

―

Aristotle

         Haley’s grandmother, Junetta Brown, lived on a small farmhouse in the middle of over two hundred acres of farmland. Her husband, Haley’s grandfather, had died eight years prior, and Junetta lived alone with a number of feline companions. She raised horses, and sold them, and had operated efficiently in this business for over six years, after having taken it up to distract herself from the sorrow of losing her husband.

         Junetta Brown was not only an equestrian but a botanist, an herbalist, a historian, proficient in three languages, a seamstress, a chef, and collected specimens of wildlife to study. She was short, at barely over five feet, and always wore long dresses reminiscent of the late nineteenth century, with practical boots for whatever farmwork she had to accomplish. Her hair was gray, and she always tucked it up in a distinctly fashioned bun that flattered her wrinkled, beautiful face. She had a fiery spirit and a keen mind, a sharp tongue and the kindest of hearts.

         She lived in the farmhouse that had been on the property since the eighteenth century. It had no electric, but operated from gas oven and a wood stove and local well plumbing. She prided herself on her resourcefulness, her independence, her savvy business and farmwork dealings, her knowledge of the natural world and her ability to thrive within it.

         The farmhouse was white, three stories tall, and sat atop a hill bordered by vast horse pastures. It had dark shingles and green shutters, and dusk was falling quickly as Haley, Elizabeth, and Carlos rode up to its front yard. Their shadows fell long behind them. They dismounted, exhausted and hungry.

         The house appeared quietly serene, like it was asleep. Haley handed her lead rope to Elizabeth, and stepping up onto the front porch, knocked loudly