THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
On the big screen, in ultra-high definition and perfect detail, thousands of people died.
The thermobaric bombs did terrible work.
Someone had the kindness or sanity, or perhaps cowardice, to mute the sound, and so the bombs detonated in ghastly silence. Flashes of light that seemed to halt the storm and repeal the dark rule of night.
The president of the United States watched his orders being carried out with the meticulous precision that is only possible at the highest level of military training. Everything was done exactly right. The jets reached their targets with rapidity, they released their payloads with great accuracy, and the weapons performed exactly according to design requirements and mechanical construction. It all happened without a hitch.
If the president had been a madman, he would have been able to enjoy such a level of craftsmanship and professionalism.
But because he was a sane man, he sat and witnessed and wept.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
STEBBINS LITTLE SCHOOL
STEBBINS, PENNSYLVANIA
When they could make their trembling legs move, Dez and Trout hurried downstairs. The children were screaming in panic. So were most of the adults. Small fires still burned, threatening to take hold on the old building. Dez beat and shoved and screamed at the teachers and parents, forcing them from shocked inaction into teams that attacked the flames with water, with fire extinguishers, with jackets they held in their hands and snapped at anything smoldering.
Seventy-two people had burns.
Eighteen of them were serious.
Mrs. Madison, whose hair was singed and whose eyes had begun to twitch, organized people into emergency care teams. When the first-aid supplies ran out they used Crisco as an unguent.
Trout limped along the hallways searching for children who had panicked and run during the explosion. He opened every door, looked into closets.
It was almost the same pattern as when they had looked for the infected.
On the ground floor, all the way in the back, he saw a door close as he approached it. He almost called out, but there was something odd about the way it closed. Soft. Almost furtive.
Or perhaps sneaky.
He slowed to a cautious walk and moved to the edge of the door, away from the smoked glass panel, not wishing to throw a shadow on it.
Inside he heard a sound that at first he couldn’t understand or identify.
A whispering voice. Male. Low.
And then snuffles.
A child.
No. Children.
Trout pressed his ear to the door to try and hear better. That’s when he heard the window.
It squeaked and rattled in the frame, and as it did the sound of rain became louder.
Someone inside was opening the window on the ground floor.
Panic flared in his chest and he grabbed the doorknob and turned it.
It only turned halfway and then stopped.
Locked.