THE FIRE FRONT By Todd Guilmette aka MAXIMILLIAN TODD

CHAPTER SEVEN: ADVANCED TACTICS

29

Kyle and Andra Phillips took turns driving. They could not dare to stop and rest; they had no idea where the fire was burning behind them. Were they succeeding in their flight against the storm, or were they only miles from being consumed by it? Since it was still late-afternoon, their persuer could not be seen yet. But, they knew, when the sun had gone behind the mountains and the darkness had reclaimed the land, the glow of disaster would be always visible in the rear-view mirror: a reminder of the urgency of their movements, and an implied warning not to err.

Kyle, in his quiet trek amongst his various influences within his mind, discovered his personal voice of doom. It kept saying, "Come on, make just one mistake. Just blow a tire or two, and you'll never get away from me. You won't anyway, but I'll just torment you just the same." And then there was a dark, malevolent burst of laughter.

"Shut up," Kyle whispered to it. "Shut up."

"What?" Andra came half awake in the other seat, sitting up.

Kyle shook his head. "Nothing. There's just this voice in my head, it wants us to screw up so the..."

Andra sighed. Kyle didn't need to finish his sentence, she had thought along those lines many times since the air field. "Yeah, well, don't let it piss you off. Just tell it to go jump in a dark hole somewhere."

Kyle grunted. "Yeah, that dark hole is where my nightmares are going to be."

"Well, don't let that stop you from changing over when you get really tired. Remember what I almost did."

"I do. That was all I was thinking about a while ago." Thoughts were returning to the cabin, and to his son. He tried to tell himself that Calvin was just away for the night at a friend's house while they went camping. To keep him from just freezing up, hiding in a corner, and going to sleep. It wasn't working very well.

"You really think we did the right--"

"He's safe!" Andra yelled, and Kyle jerked the wheel. "He's with good people in Seattle or someplace! Safe!" She started to cry. It lasted many miles, and he could not look at her.

Kyle's stomach woke him up in the dark. He sat up, and saw his former wife, illuminated by the dim dashboard lights. She glanced at him, and sniffed. "There's a rest area with a food mart up ahead. I was going to stop."

Kyle sucked his lips, getting the sleep-taste out of his mouth. "How long was I asleep?"

"A few hours. Look behind us."

Kyle turned. It looked like the sun was coming up behind them. There would be nothing out of the ordinary about that, except for the fact that it was rising from the wrong direction.

"It looks dimmer," Kyle observed.

"You think so?" Andra sounded hopeful, but guarded. "I was thinking that, but I thought it was my mind playing tricks."

"No, it definitely looks dimmer."

"Could it be stopping?"

"I don't know. Nobody thought it was going to."

Andra smirked. "Pfff. Nobody knows what it is, and nobody's going to know. It could keep going, I mean, where do we go when it reaches Maine? To Europe? And then where? The fucking world is round you know."

"Andra."

"I mean, Columbus wasn't a dumb fuck, he knew about certain things, like don't let your government fuck with nature and destroy the whole human race."

"Andra!"

Andra stared suddenly in Kyle's direction. Her eyes were very wide.

"Come on!" Kyle said. They stared at each other until the tires on Kyle's side sounded like they were treading soft shoulder. Andra gripped the wheel, and pulled the truck back onto asphalt.

"Jesus," Kyle said. "You really do want to drive off the road lately. I mean, this isn't a tank."

Andra's face lightened. She started to laugh in starts, and then she laughed freely. Kyle joined her, and soon they were at the rest stop.

30

The fluorescent lights inside the sign which blared "TOM'S MART and GAS. LAST STOP FOR A LONG TIME!" were not burning. The mart was illuminated only by the moon.

Andra parked the car across three spaces, leaving the engine running. They walked inside the mart. The familiar buzzing and humming of refrigerated containers and displays was not to be heard, and it disarmed them a little. To Andra's experience, every time she had entered a place like this, an awkward assortment of syrupy potato chips and disgusting disinfectant, and a friendly greeting (or at least, an acknowledgement) from the clerk had welcomed her. This time, there was the smell, stronger than usual from the early stages of sour, but there was no smile or "Good afternoon!" It was spooky.

Kyle half-expected a scraggly-looking moron to leap out from behind the Slim Jim's and attack them with a slurpee, screaming that this was his store, his food, and no one was going to steal it. Nothing to that effect happened, and it made him uneasy. He began checking the coolers for food.

"Damn," Kyle said. "It looks like the good stuff has been taken already."

"Well, we got beef jerky, chips, Velamints and some wierd diet-something."

"Nothing's cool anymore, I wouldn't trust these." Kyle held up some moon-pies.

Andra snorted. "I wouldn't eat that shit anyway."

Kyle frowned. "You don't like moon-pies?"

Andra gave him an "You idiot, of course I don't, and if you would have paid more attention, you would have gotten that" look, and said nothing.

"Well, let's take what we can and keep going," Kyle said. They packed junk food into bags, and threw them into the truck. "Thanks, Tom."

Andra turned. "What?"

Kyle pointed at the sign.

"Oh. Yeah. Thanks, Tom!" She saluted the sign.

Kyle was driving again, so he climbed behind the wheel. Andra had just shut her door when the convoy came by.

"What the hell?"

A black sixteen-wheel truck rolled by at high speed. Three more followed it, and it seemed that at least twenty more were behind those. Several jeeps were driven by them when the semis had passed.

"What's going on?" Kyle asked no-one.

"Aren't they going the wrong way?"

"I would think so."

One of the jeeps pulled out of the convoy, heading toward the mart. Kyle readied the wheel, waiting for anything. The jeep pulled up beside them; the window rolled down. A badge appeared in the window.

31

Federal agent Samuel Thomas was in what he thought of as a stress-hurricane. The future of the United States of America may well be in the hands of this task-force, and others like it. He had been trained to prepare for the all-encompassing, career-peaking, save-the-world assignment, and it had come. Sam was not prepared.

"Get that fucking stoop up at the front to step on it more up those hills! We're making shitty time!" Sam yelled at the driver of his jeep from the back seat. The driver flinched visibly. "Yes, sir!" he said, and picked up the CB handpiece.

"Sam," the other agent in army-loaned jeep number twenty-seven said quietly.

"What?" Sam turned to his right.

"These trucks are loaded with machinery. They couldn't make it up these hills at full speeds if they were empty."

"I know that," Sam told his partner. "I need someone to ball out."

"Well don't get too cocky--" A loud voice over the CB radio stopped the agent in mid-sentence. It was the voice of a much-perturbed truck driver.

"You can tell that god damn twit fucking leper to twist my dick into a totem pole! These trucks aren't supersonic jets. If he wanted something faster, why doesn't he just pull a Concorde out of the sky?"

Sam glared at the radio. He practically leaped into the front seat and grabbed the microphone out of the driver's hand. "Attention, dissatisfied customer:" Sam spoke deadly. "Tell me something that I didn't know before you were born, you in-bred shit-kicking faggot. Say one more word, and I'll take you out."

The reply was quick. "HA! You couldn't knock down a cattail, suit-man..."

Sam ignored the radio as the truck-driver ranted on. "Which one is he?"

"Uh, the second one up," the jeep driver said.

"Alright. When I say, pull into the passing lane, and then, when I say, pull onto the shoulder."

"O.K." The driver just followed orders. He heard a click behind him.

"Now."

The jeep pulled to the left, and Sam leaned out the window. He took aim with his Beretta, and a running light on the driver's side door of the semi truck ahead stopped glowing.

"Now."

The jeep pulled to the right, and Sam leaned over his partner. A running light on the other door of the semi did the same. There was a gasp over the radio, and both men in the jeep cussed loudly. Their ears would ring for a while.

Sam sat back into his seat. He didn't have to give voice to his warning: the bullets were sufficient.

"That was a bit ridiculous," Agent Paris McArthur said. He was moving his ear about, glaring at his partner.

"That was a bit of discipline," Sam retorted.

"Yeah, well, next time you decide to go shooting at our truck drivers, put the silencer on."

"Shit."

Sam Thomas was by no means an inexperienced agent. His apparent recklessness in procedural workings was not as a result of gung-ho attitudes, but rather a natural defense against any amount of pressure. Persons working under his pervue could always attest to his take-no-bull stance and stubborn will. Frequently, Sam's first words to would-be employees were "Do you mind if I cuss you out?" If the person chose to shake their head, then he would go at it, conjuring up his own brand of creative vulgar ramble. Surviving persons were hired.

Sam's employers could also pick out many times in which they had been interrupted from their duties to answer someone's complaint or comment on a certain Agent Samuel Thomas. He was a pain in the ass to everyone, but he was also the best on-your-toes strategist in the division. Therefore, people put up with his eccentricities, but only if he got results. Sam always did.

"Where are we?" Sam asked.

The driver answered. "I think around Gentry's Bend. Top of the mountain."

"Good. Then, we can get some time."

The radio clicked on. "This is lead truck one. There's a food mart up here, and there's a small-cab truck parked with lights on."

"We'll pass it in a minute," the driver said.

"Tell him we got it," Sam said. The driver did so. "Pull up to their driver's side."

Sam assumed that these were just another group of locals running for their lives, but they were close to the Burn. He wanted to know anything that they could tell them. These were the first people, he knew, that would be dead from the fire if it had not turned south. These were the first living dead people, as it were. Sam pulled out his identification.

"What are you going to do?" Agent McArthur asked, knowing that he would be told only what Sam wanted him to know. As far as he knew, no one knew what the real Sam Thomas was like. The man put on an air the size of Texas.

"Grab them," Sam answered.

The truck stopped, and Sam shoved his ID out the window. "FBI," he said. "Where you headed?"

There was a man and a woman in the truck. They looked like locals. The man replied. "Away from that fire."

"My name is Agent Sam Thomas. This is Agent McArthur."

The man gave a hesitating nod. "Excuse me, but aren't you all going the wrong way?"

"Oh, the fire's not coming this way," Sam sounded surer than he was. "It's going more south. Toward the straits. We're going in for a general investigation." He did not mention what they were investigating, for he wanted to keep the constructive lying at a minimum on this one. They might need these people's help in the future. On many assignments, Sam adopted a choice group of information-suppliers, usually serving as semantics and etticate "specialists." Sam always liked to appear professional, and these two would do for this one.

"I would like the two of you to accompany me on our assignment."

"Us? Why us?"

"I'll need information about the country out here, and you would be more knowledgable than I."

Kyle smelled a giant sardine. "But surely you have maps of the area."

"The information I'm looking for would not be on any map. Don't worry, I'll provide for you. We have bunks in one of those trucks. And water. You won't be able to find that for a while, especially where you're headed." Sam stuck a small untruth here. In fact, they had just passed a small town with motel lights ablaze. Evidently, Tom was lying about his mart being the last stop for a long time. Bed and breakfast were just ten miles off.

Kyle chose to play it safe, and, after getting a nod from Andra, they gathered their things, left most of the food, and scrambled into the jeep.

"What about my truck?" Kyle remembered at the last minute.

"Nobody's coming back this way for a long while," Sam said. It was another little untruth, but he hardly noticed it.

32

Andra did not think much of the government, and in most organized constructs of business in general. She thought that, as soon as a group of people had as many levels of organization so that the top level could not see the bottom level, then the group was useless, powerless, and unstable as hell. Given the rumors and hear-say that constantly plagued the particular division of government which now held her and Kyle, Andra reasoned that the Federal Bureau of Investigation must be the most unstable power in the world.

She considered each of the occupants in the jeep. First, there was the agent, Sam-whoever. Andra distrusted him at first sight. It was just a hunch, but her little internal danger-meter was showing signs of going toward the red again. She believed the man about the fire, that it was not a threat to them, but there was another danger out there, and this man was determined to find it. Andra did not feel particularly honored to be along for the ride, even if she would be a part of the great United States' decided victory over the force behind the front (if there was one. She assumed so, for the FBI could not battle a wall of fire. They could, however, battle people.) It was something you could not really put into words, but she did not feel safe in the car with Agent Sam.

Andra looked over the other two suits. The one driving the car seemed to be here to do just that, so she assumed that he would not be anyone particularly important. Or of danger, so she dismissed him as a threat to her and Kyle. Unless the guy happened to have a stroke or something, and drive them off into a gorge.

The other suit was quiet. He seemed to defer to Agent Sam, most of the time looking at either his notebook or his tie. This man was obviously the underling, the newer man learning from the seasoned, older one. She felt a bit sorry for this one, for, unlike her and Kyle, who were of interest to Agent Sam, he seemed to be along just for the ride. She sighed. Possibly the greatest crisis to ever befall the first world power, and he was along for the ride. Andra did not want to be in the history book like that.

Her gaze landed on Kyle. Kyle, the man whom she had known for such a long time, but did not really know after all. Kyle, the man in the back-seat, the man influenced, the man following. Were she and Kyle just footnotes in the History books, addendums to the great war? Would their names be written only after an "accompanied by" or "assisted by"? Andra realized at that moment how big what she was in really was.

Andra looked again at Agent Sam. He wasted no time, his mouth forming questions, addressing Kyle in earnest. She dismissed her musings, and began to watch the drama unfold, as we now join our program, already in progress.

"Where exactly did you come from?" Agent Sam asked Kyle.

"Near . Andra came from ." Kyle did not mention their son. Agent Thomas did not seem to be looking for that type of information.

"And when did you get out of ?"

"About two days ago. We heard about the fire coming, and we left too late. There were no planes left, all the pilots had taken their last passengers."

"You were lucky you chose to go east, instead of south," Thomas said, matter-of-factly. "If you had gone south, you would not have made it."

Andra thought about this. She made a note to ask Kyle about this later. She had never questioned his decision, he had simply driven West, toward . It just felt like the right thing to do.

The agent continued. "We'll need you input constantly during the next few days. In a little while, we'll reach the burned parts of the forest, and you will be able to help at that point. We have maps, yes, but you will be able to give details about certain things once we reach your home-towns. It will be difficult, but you must continue on with us. We need your help."

Kyle was never one to fool around with words. "Are we being drafted?"

Agent Thomas studied his folder. "You are being asked to assist your government concerning a matter of national security like no other before. You should feel honored to be put into the position you now hold."

Kyle was never one to fool around with words. "Are we being drafted?"

Agent Thomas looked up from his folder, and met Kyle's gaze. "Yes," he said.

33

It did not take as long to reach the burned parts as Andra had thought. Only minutes had passed, and then the trees had ended. Since it was very dark out, and the glare of the windows was strong, she did not notice that the tree-line had vanished until a few seconds after the fact. When she did realise this, she sat up in her seat, blinking and leaning over Kyle.

"What?" Kyle asked quietly.

"The trees are gone," Andra said.

"Welcome to the terrordome," Agent Thomas said. He was smiling.

A few hours later, Sam Thomas ordered the convoy to stop. "We're just outside . Tomorrow, we should be able to reach our destination, and start our investigation."

"What is our destination?" Kyle asked.

"Ground Zero," Agent Thomas said. "Come on."

Andra, Kyle, and the three agents reached one of the large trucks, and climbed in. As promised, there were bunks lining the walls. The room was not as large as Kyle had envisioned, suggesting that there was more than one room in this vehicle. There were no windows.

The Phillips did not see any more of the taxpayers' production that night, for they were tired. Having not slept a great deal the past few days, all four of them fell onto the narrow beds and slept until dawn.

Andra followed Kyle down the few stairs and out the door. When her eyes became accustomed to the light, she thought for a moment that she might be dreaming. Because, surely, this much devistation could not be possible.

The mountains were bright and reflective. The contour of the land was smooth, like a computer-generated model. This area, Andra knew, used to be quite lush with vegetation. Now, the grass had been replaced with the elemental Carbon powder.

Andra stepped out into the ash. She looked back at her footprints, turning in a slow daze. She sniffed. That footprint in the ash reminded her of the first footprints on the moon, one small step for man.

"We're on the mooon, Kyle," she said.

Kyle turned to her. "No, And. This is us. This is what we can do if we see fit. This is what has become of us."

"Bullshit," Agent Samuel Thomas said, standing a few feet away. "This is what some madman has done. And we're going to get him. We're going to get him good." He walked behind the truck and started back to the jeeps.

Kyle couldn't tell if the agent was trying to convince them or himself of their intent. Since he could not decide, he reasoned that it was both. Such a scene as this had to be as devistating to those who witnessed the aftermath as to the land itself. Kyle took comfort in the realisation that the all-knowing, confident FBI specialist was not immune to this stark reality. This thing was indeed bigger than all of them.

CHAPTER EIGHT: BROADCAST JOURNALISM

34

People were shouting and screaming and shooting and dying. Meteorologist Gene Baker decided that he was just an actor, and this was one of those gratuitously-violent top-grossing flicks. At any moment, he expected Arnold Schwarzenegger or Wesley Snipes to prance into the building and pop off all of the bad guys (the bullets kindly going around the good guys), and the grenades happening to explode in all of the right places.

But this little game died in Gene's head when one of the masked men thought that he might put the butt of his machine-gun into the place where Gene's sternum was. Gene was wheezing and making a very comical face when the man then asked him something. The man had to repeat his sentence and threaten another blow before Gene managed an answer.

"Can you set up a live transmission?" the man asked.

"Yes," Gene whispered. "But we need everyone to do it."

"Hmm," the man snarled, then called down the hallway toward the studios. "Don't cream anyone else! We need to get a message sent!"

Someone answered this order, and the man held out his hand, offering to help Gene off the floor. Gene stared at it for a moment, then struggled to his feet. "Offer declined, asshole," Gene's face said.

The man glared at Gene, then raised the gun again. "Into the studio."

The employees of this broadcast station were not used to following orders at gunpoint, so the studio was in some disarray. The gunmen were trying to prod the cameramen and technicians into setting up the equipment, but these average men and women were quite stunned, thank you, having just had their news director/supervisor killed in the lobby. The gunmens' frustration was building.

The gunman escourted Gene into the studio, pushed Gene off to the side, and walked over to the stage. He sat on the news desk, and batted his legs to and fro like a restless child. He smiled.

"My name is Jeremy Fawcett," the man said when he had felt all eyes on him. "I am a courier from the SEEDRS. I have a message for the world, and you all will help me send it. Right?"

There was no answer, so Fawcett turned to Gene. "Right," Gene said.

Fawcett smiled. "Listen closely, this is what I want," he announced. "I want a clear sattelite uplink. I want live, uninterrupted transmission and no fucking Orville Redenbacher commercials. This is for real. We have captured this station in order to communicate our intentions to all who are likely to be affected. That is, anyone with or without a TV. The SEEDRS are not a terrorist group, just a revolutionary one. We have no desire to hurt anyone who assists us."

A voice came from the darkness somewhere behind a camera. "Yeah, right. So why is Tom Schumann dead?"

Gene grimaced, and waited for the gunman to answer with what he assumed would be very unstylish force. He was right, as the courier and leader of the first information force, acting on behalf of the power of the Solution for the Edification and Evolution by Direct Redesign Strategy, depressed his automatic machine gun, and ended the life of one Walter Donovan, professional cameraman.

The cameraman's body slumped onto a stack of Fresnel lights, and leaked all over them. Channel News' journalism and technical staff crouched as far as they could into themselves, and waited for another barrage of sound. When it did not come, they waited anyway.

When he felt like he had everyone's undivided attention, Jeremy Fawcett explained his recent actions. "Your news director, Tom Schumann, is no longer needed as a public servant, for I will take his place. I will be the last new director that this station will ever see." He sighed, and walked over to the fallen crewman. "Your unfortunate cameraman, Walter Donovan, when he chose to make the inevitable contestment of me and my organizational power, I chose to make him the subject, and, if all goes well, only necessary exhibit of the force of that power. I am truly sympathetic in my wish that he could have been something more, but someone has to be an example for us all."

Gene could not help himself. "How do you expect to get away with all of this?"

Jeremy Fawcett smiled. "Aah, the inevitable question number two. You see, the SEEDRS has the greatest power anyone or anything has ever had. Including nature. We have the power to produce a pressure-driven, manually-controlled fire front. In a few hours, the first full scale fire wall will completely destroy the inhabited cities of California."

35

"I killed your two crewmen to prove the effect of my influence on you and yours. In the same manner, the SEEDRS will prove the effect of our organization on world affairs. We will do this by levelling some of the largest cities on Earth. We expect that this will attract some attention. Don't you think?" Jeremy Fawcett smiled again, and then laughed. Gene Baker had only heard malice such as that which inhabited this man in corny action-adventure movies. But this man was as real as Gene was, and his power, if indeed it was as the man had described, was as well.

"Enough bullshit," Jeremy Fawcett said. "I have assignments." And then, he proceeded to name all those who were left, and gave them positions. Gene found that the names fit their familiar places during normal broadcast. This group of terrorists, he thought, had their connections everywhere.

"Except Tom and Walter," Gene murmured. Those two men would never hold their positions again. He would never hear Tom cussing out the cameramen or the soundboard, and he would never hear Walter's sexually explicit yet childishly innocent jokes. Gene fixed his glare on their "new leader," as the man had put it. Three thoughts circulated through Gene's mind: how Jeremy Fawcett had violated this station, how his group had sent the world into chaos, and how Gene would like to casually drop a pile-driver onto Fawcett's head.

Gene, being a meteorologist, and therefore of no use to an insane faction as this, stood idle. After a moment, he joined the technicians in the control room. He caught Kelly Frasier's eye as he closed the door, and moved to a corner. Kelly did not speak to him, as she was being instructed by Fawcett. Evidently, he was telling her what to write. This was something, Gene knew, that Kelly did not like. As one of her conditions for coming on board as one of Channel Seven's new team, she demanded that she write her own original material, and "borrow" from other sources only when obviously needed. Gene only hoped she did not mouth off to this man. She had to see that Fawcett took her life as seriously as he did Walter's.

"This is my information," Jeremy Fawcett was saying. "You may convert it to your own style, and organize it to your own standards. Please present your draft to me so that I can check for validity. Then, your anchor, Charles O'Reilly, will present it on-screen. I will be in the news director's office."

Fawcett strode over to the audio board, where another SEEDR gunman was instructing the audio tech in much the same direct manner as Fawcett had Kelly. Gene moved slowly over to Kelly.

"What the fuck is going on here, Gene?" Kelly asked without turning in her chair.

"Shhh," Gene whispered. "All we have to do is do what this guy says."

"I don't know. I didn't like the finality of that speech. 'The last news director.' I don't like that at all."

"Just keep on writing. You've got something to do, at least. What am I going to do, this guy doesn't look like he's interested in the weather."

Kelly sniffed. "No kidding. I don't like being here. When Charles goes on the air, we'll become a military target, probably high-profile. If the army comes in here, all of us stand a good chance of being hit by the ricochet."

Gene closed his eyes, and mouthed a few obscenities. When he heard himself paged, he looked up. Jeremy Fawcett was motioning him over from across the room.

Gene took a deep breath. "Keep at it," he whispered, and followed Fawcett to Tom's office.

Jeremy Fawcett sat down at Tom's desk. Gene felt a dark anger towards this freak for doing even that. The act of sitting, purposely, in a desk where a decent person had occupied minutes ago, in a desk that once belonged to a person you had murdered, well, it was inhuman.

"Close the door," Jeremy Fawcett suggested. He smiled.

Gene did so, and stood in front of his enemy. "Now what?" he asked. "Are you going to shoot me, too, because I am not needed either?"

"Oh, no, no. I am using you as a sounding board, and as my entertainment through these long hours of wait."

"Before what?"

Jeremy Fawcett laughed. "Before my force superceded your previous staff, I knew everything there was to know about you and your comrades. I know everyone's name, everyone's specialty. I even know that you and Miss Fraiser had lunch earlier today, and became quite intimate."

Gene worked his jaw. He did not want to give an inch to this fool, but he sounded trite when he lied, "Heat of the moment."

Fawcett huffed. "Pretty heated, I'd say. I had to get to know you, so I followed you for a while. You're a pretty boring man, Gene. You work, you shop, you work, and you buy really tasteless clothes."

"Fuck you," Gene said.

Fawcett laughed. "Yeah, yeah. Well, wouldn't you say that you live a very small life, just a small person in a world of machine parts? Everyone's a cog in the great wheel of society, and you're just a little nut. How does that make you feel?"

"It makes me feel tender."

"Like a piece of chopped meat, yes, at the mercy of the great bureaucratic Ginsu knife. Have you ever seen Pink Floyd's 'The Wall?'"

"No," Gene said.

"Masterpiece. The children walk into the meat grinder, they enter as brainwashed drones, and exit as what they really were anyway: chopped meat."

"Beautiful."

Fawcett smiled, staring blankly at one of Tom's Greatful Dead posters. Gene stared at the man, wondering how he could have turned out so wrong.

"Time to check on dear Kelly, don't you think? She must have a couple feet of spun yarn by now." Fawcett stood, and motioned Gene to open the door, and exit.

"Yeah," Gene said.

"'Yeah,'" Fawcett repeated. "If we are going to pass the time, you have to spend a little more time talking to me. I want to know what you think."

"You want to know what I think? I think you're all mad, and I hope the Army comes and nukes this place so we can be put out of our misery."

Jeremy Fawcett nodded, pressing his lips together, considering. "That's a start. But I have convictions that will withstand a great deal of meaningless posturing." he motioned Gene out the door, and they came to the control room.

36

"This is quite good," Jeremy Fawcett told Kelly after looking over her work. "You've handled my limitations, and followed my instructions quite well."

Kelly sniffed. "What, did you think it was going to be trash? We're all professionals here."

Fawcett smiled, considered her. "Yes, we are. Good. Give it to O'Reilly." He straightened up, addressed the two journalists. "This'll be fun."

Gene exchanged a glance with Kelly. Kelly's face was saying, "This'll be the end of us." Gene agreed.

This guy was a lunatic, Gene thought. But he sure knows his stuff. Fawcett had given all the right cues, had organised their special broadcast to the fine details. Gene theorised that either he had been instructed very well, or he had been a journalist before he had decided to go crazy.

They were on the air, and Charles O'Reilly was speaking. "On behalf of the Solution for the Edification and Evolution by Direct Redesign Strategy, I am authorised to make this statement: 'Consider this before all things: in a day's time, the great metropolitan areas of the southwest will be destroyed. Take this as an example of the power that we hold under our pervue.

"The SEEDRS have a common goal. This goal is, simply, the relieving of current world powers and organisations, and the beginning of a new form of law. The nature of this law is elementary. The law of the SEEDRS is this: We must deliver man of his intent to destroy himself. To accomplish this given current populations and moralities would be impossible, so we are taking an active role in diminishing these factors so as to implement our plans for the restoration of our world. This plan is three-fold: One, the human population of this planet will be reduced by one-third. This will give the natural systems room to expand. Two, the vegetation will be re-grown. This will restore the hills to their normal appearance. Three, a new society will be created, one which holds the value of land above all else. This will hold the human species in the precarious balance that is non-destructive to itself.

"The end result will succeed in delivering the human species from its current self-destructive path. If any action is taken to counteract our plan, a second fire will be set, and it will sweep the eastern cities of the North American continent, burning them to ash.

"We are not ameteur. We are not mad. We intend to succeed in our plan. We have surveillance in every locality and government agency. If any force is found to be acting against us, we will level New York City.

"You, as citizens of a dead Nation, have no rights. Do whatever you see fit, and hope to be one of the chosen. Good Luck, people. See you in the woods sometime.

"Signed, Richard Oldknow, conductor of the SEEDRS.' This message has been delivered to the world by this Seattle channel. We will make no other transmissions. On behalf of the city of Seattle, I would like to wish you all God's chosen. Good Bye."

"'God be with you,'" Kelly said quietly. She crossed herself. Gene noticed her movements, and reached for her shoulder. But Kelly took his hand, and held it for a while. "Here comes the hell," she said.

Jeremy Fawcett was full of praise. "Excellent! Excellent! All of you did a wonderful job."

The group had gathered in the studio again, and all eyes were on Fawcett. The way he likes it, Gene thought.

"Now, all that is left to do is retain the possession of this station for the SEEDRS. All of you have no further duties."

There was a silence here, as people sought the meaning in this last statement.

O'Reilly spoke first. "You mean we are free to go now?"

"No," Fawcett said. "If if becomes necessary to broadcast again, I will need you people."

"But, you said that the one we just did was the last," O'Reilly pointed out.

"Yes, we hope. If we have to go on the air again, it will be bad news."

Another silence occured here, as people considered this.

"But let's not think about that for now," Fawcett said brightly. "Let's get some rest. Of course, you are still my captives, but would you rather be out there, in the war-zone?"

Gene bit his toungue at this. He would have taken his chances out in the "war-zone" in a second, rather than be in the company of this man. But, he thought, Fawcett probably did not want to hear it now. Gene looked forward to another dialogue with Fawcett. He had been invited to speak, and now he had a lot to say. And nothing to lose.

37

Jeremy Fawcett was patient. He waited until Gene had collected his thoughts. Fawcett was staring into Gene's chest, so his wool-gathering took longer than it should have. But after a few moments, Gene did have an opening statement to this next session of the dialogue between unstable terrorist and local meteorologist.

"You know," Gene said. "I've heard about people like you. People who take direct action to influence politics. You boycott and operate in grassroots campaigns to get attention. But you haven't yet gotten a spokesman for the Environmentalist party, one who could speak for all factions between people who share your views. Sure, there are spokesmen for each little group, Greenpeace and such. But each group will go a certain distance and stop. You can't agree."

Fawcett continued. "Yes, some groups will work within the law, a process which takes much more time than we have. Others will organise door-to-door 'information providers,' most of which are not trusted, and laughed at. Some will take direct action to boycott industries, and some even physically block operations of fishermen and miners. Well, we go beyond anything that has come before. The so-called environmental protectionists have no organisation, and no power. We are going beyond them, beyond any other group. We take responsibility of the rejuvenation of the planet Earth. And if we are criticized by other less-effective factions, so be it. If they cannot accept the principles by which we hold to, then they will get overlooked, and become unimportant. We will solve all of their problems, in the most direct manner possible."

"Even if it means killing millions?" Gene asked.

"The limiting of the population of human animals on this planet is a form of population control which is long-overdue. If the human beings are to survive, and advance, then they must control themselves. Politicians have convinced the people that we need no control. That is the most dangerous thing that has ever happened."

"And how do you choose yourselves as the enforcers of your rules?" Gene challenged. "Don't you see how small a group you are? Your objectives are only important to a tiny fraction of the population. And you decide for us all?"

Fawcett had heard this one before, too. "Our concerns affect every living being on Earth. Even if they don't know it. A person in Sudan, starving, decrying all of the values which we hold dear, and yet we have no means to stop those people from dying. The over-populated regions on this planet were never meant to be. There is only enough land for a certain amount of people. After that, additional members become unproductive, and a burden to all. These persons, who will take gracious offerings from well-to-do folks in the richer nations, will die when these folks come to the same conclusion that we have, or simply not be able or not find it 'worth it' to continue the assistance. Anyone who takes from the land without giving back to it should not be allowed to exist."

"I'll only say this:" Gene said. "You have strong convictions, and I respect that. But there is a way to save everyone without killing them."

"These world governments, in this point in time, cannot afford to offer aid. Economically speaking, it would only put one in debt to offer aid to someone who will not in turn repay that person for their offerings. Sudan, Ethiopia, India. They have no way to do this, because our own country is overpopulated. They could not repay us. There is no place to go. And as machines replace humans, the humans must diminish their numbers. Or there will always be poverty, and death."

"But your grand plan will not save humanity," Gene said. "After you kill them off, the ones that are left will only do what their fathers did: fuck till the dawn. You can't repress nature."

"But we can educate every person. Educate them with all the knowledge that they wish. When a person knows all there is to know, they cannot make the wrong decision. They will live, and they will advance."

Gene shook his head. "I cannot believe that you all have such good intentions in your hearts. You can't destroy mass human life, and then turn around and preserve it. Once you lose respect for life, you cannot gain it back."

Jeremy Fawcett smiled. "Aah, but you don't lose respect when you never had it to begin with. There are people on this planet that are simply existing. They are not contributing to human progress; they are not producing. They are just existing. Well, no one gets a free ride on this world. It doesn't happen in nature, and it will not happen here."

Gene said, "But you are destroying productive people. There are thousands in Los Angeles who contribute to society. You are destroying them."

"We cannot pick and choose. Populations over a certain density will be limited. It will be as if giant natural disasters had taken place. Nature cannot repress humans anymore, we have mostly beat her. So we have to repress ourselves. We must, in order to live."

"Sounds to me like someone has a God complex, and the tact to influence others to follow his or her reckless plan," Gene said flatly.

"The leader of our group is named, Richard Oldknow. He has the vision to conquer the world crisis, and the ability to convince others that he is correct in his logic, and his methods."

"He certainly did with you. You remind me of a church-goer, blindly following his priest."

To Gene's surprise, this taunt brought no reaction. Fawcett just considered Gene, cocking his head as if he were viewing a fine painting. "I must let you meet Doctor Oldknow. You are worthy of his convictions, and a fine challenge to me, indeed. You are going to be fun to talk to, Gene."

Fawcett stood, and ushered Gene to the door. Gene stepped out, and Fawcett closed the door.

A short time later, Fawcett had made it clear that he no longer required any of the Channel Seven news staff's assistance for the near future, so they found their own small groups, settled in small offices, and waited. Gene found Kelly Frasier in one of the offices, alone, staring at a wall chart.

"Kelly," Gene whispered. Kelly jumped, for the building was very quiet, except for the occasional expulsion of gunpowder in the far distance. The looters had chosen to keep their distance from the station; the burning vehicles in the parking lot was a stark warning, and the shadows of the SEEDR guards in the lobby, reflecting on the tinted windows, with firearms evident, was an additional deterrent.

"Sorry," Gene said, closing the door to the cubby. Kelly only nodded quickly, returning her gaze to the chart. "Can I sit down?" Gene asked.

Kelly shrugged, and Gene folded on the floor next to her, back against the wall. A moment of hazy quiet passed, and then Gene spoke.

"We're in a lot of trouble."

Kelly laughed. "Ha! You're telling me something new here?"

Gene raised his eyebrows, not expecting such a fierce retort. Everyone else seemed to have succumbed to the superior force, he thought, and Kelly was still her refreshing self. His mood lifted a little.

"No," Gene said. "I guess I'm just getting my toungue in the door, so to speak. It's really quiet around here."

"I think it's very surreal, like a movie," Kelly observed. "All around us, people going crazy and revealing any survival skills that they may have collected in Boy Scouts, and looting like animals, shooting anything that moves. I wonder how many people have died?"

"I don't know," Gene said.

"Yeah. And the only thing that is keeping us alive is the thing that is killing everyone else."

"The SEEDRS."

"The SEEDRS. The weeders. Shit. I have absolutely no respect for that Fawcett fuck. I'd like to take his head off."

Gene grunted. "Yep. At this point, I wouldn't mind watching you do it."

Kelly laughed again. Evidently, whatever irony machine she had in her head was processing madly. She giggled a lot lately, appreciating the dark humor at every turn. Gene wondered. She was just like that, he thought.

"Well, we've established our mutual hate toward our captors," Kelly said. "Now what?"

"Well," Gene said. "Well.. we sit on our asses." Gene broke into sets of loud laughter, and Kelly joined him.

"We sit on our asses," Kelly repeated. Their voices were loud, and renounced the quiet supression with cruel tact. They laughed until they were out of breath, and then they sighed for a while. Gene hoped Fawcett had heard that. He would have liked to see his face.

CHAPTER NINE: OBVIOUS MANEUVERING

38

Matthew Collins steeled himself for his video two-way phone call to his field agent. He did not enjoy talking with Samuel Thomas very much, so it was to his great comfort that the man was on the other side of the North American continent. He wouldn't have to see him at all if it weren't for this new damn technology that those morons in Development came up with. Sure, they said. If you can see as well as hear your contact, then you might communicate better.

Right, Matthew thought. As if I wanted to see this jackass. A phone would do well enough.

Matthew pressed a few buttons on a side panel next to his desk, and the words WATING FOR CONNECTION appeared. Seconds later, Agent Samuel Thomas appeared in the viewscreen.

"Agent Thomas," came the audio answer. The image on the screen was still a bit grainy, but it showed Thomas's irritation at being called off his assignment just to chat with his supervisor. Samuel turned his head and stared at something off-screen.

"Sam," Matthew spoke into his console. "Give me a progress report."

Thomas sighed, making more clear his attitude towards Matthew. Matthew's face hardened. If this asshole wasn't so good at his job, he thought. I would discharge his ass in two seconds flat.

Thomas gave his report. "We're inside the affected area, and we are proceeding toward ground zero. I'm gonna nail these fuckers."

"Don't get overexcited, Sam," Matthew said. "'those fuckers' might just send another fire after you and take your whole operation off-line."

Thomas sniffed, and shifted his gaze off-camera again. Insulted like a little boy, Matthew thought. That figures.

"I want you to proceed with all due speed," Matthew commanded. "But don't charge in blindly. This faction isn't playing around. If you cannot neutralize this force by tommorrow, the whole world is going to send their forces out to stop them. And Alaska will not look the same after."

"Don't worry," Thomas said. "I've got a couple locals who'll assist me in speeding up my progress."

"What? Civilians?"

"Yes."

"Well, what the hell can a couple fucking arctic natives do for you? You should have everything that you need."

"If that's true, then why are you threatening to pull me off tommorrow?"

"Oh, no, it's not me, honey. 'The whole world' is what I said, and I mean it. Every country with military capability is threatening to come in and fix our little problem. The thing is, I don't think any direct assault will be successful. We need to go under their noses. That's why we're sending you, and only you.

"Get rid of the civilians. I don't want that liability."

"I need them, " Samuel said, looking into the camera for the first time. Matthew narrowed his eyes. "I think I'm going to find a good use for them sometime soon."

"For what? A guided tour?"

"Insight," Samuel said. "Trust me."

Matthew almost laughed out loud. "Keep them. But if they somehow become mortally harmed, I didn't hear you mention them."

"Yeah," Agent Thomas said. "I got you."

"Call me tonight from the truck," Matthew said, leaning back in his chair. "Remember, if you don't have this together by tommorrow noon, you will not want to be anywhere near Alaska."

Thomas nodded, and the screen blanked. CONNECTION BROKEN, it read.

Matthew took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. He buzzed his secretary, and she opened the door to his private office.

"Grab me a cup of coffee, will you, Rita?" Matthew asked. "Spice it up."

"Coming up, Mister Collins."

Matthew stretched his neck. The brandy would soothe his nerves a bit. Having a loose cannon like Samuel Thomas under his command did not sit well with him, and it did not sit well with his stomach, either. Thomas was known for completing his assignment and getting the desired results. But the means to the end were always.. well, not exactly what the Bureau would have envisioned. Agent Thomas' work benefits usually equalled the cost of press relations and damage control. Matthew was lucky to break even in his budget.

Matthew explored a few profanities under his breath, and turned his back on the video-phone. There was still other work to do. Even though the west-coast was about to enjoy hotter-than-usual temperatures, the East-coast was still unaffected. And he had more than one operation to supervise.

The coffee came, and he sipped it, relaxing. When he was relaxed, he sipped it a little more, and relaxed.