Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,118

was dead. Rook would be soon. He would kill himself before letting those things do whatever they had planned. Or he’d fight until they had no choice but to kill him.

Her mind returned to the mission. The Nguoi Rung named Shane had talked about two humans being trapped in Mount Meru. She wasn’t sure where that was, but suspected it was back the way they’d come. She scoured the tunnel for movement or signs of danger. The firelight and angry voices from Weston’s crew faded as they hurried on their way. She picked up the torch left behind and retrieved King’s KA-BAR knife. As she turned to start deeper into the cave a glitter of light caught her eye. It came from the room inside which she and Rook had hid inside.

She paused and stepped back into the room. Her eyes grew wide as a treasure beyond all comparison became revealed in the light of the torch.

“Son of a bitch.” Queen’s anger quickened her pulse to a point where she could feel it thumping bursts of pain across her branded forehead. If they’d only seen what this room contained a few minutes earlier, Rook wouldn’t have been captured.

FIFTY-FIVE

Washington, D.C.

SECRET SERVICE LINED the hallway in front of and behind him. They cleared the way, allowing for a quick departure and absolute secrecy. No one other than the man at his side, and the loyal protectors he would leave behind, would know the president of the United States had abandoned his post.

He felt awful for doing it, for the ruse, but some matters had to be attended to personally. And that meant leaving the White House. That meant breaking the quarantine. Not that the quarantine mattered anymore. Every major network was carrying the story now.

When the tenth victim, a second survivor, had been diagnosed, the doctors went to the press despite a warning from the FBI. The press coverage, as usual, was sensationalized. Not only was Brugada held responsible for the ten known victims in Washington, D.C, but also every death across the country with an unknown, unusual, or suspicious nature. According to the press, the current death toll was approaching five hundred.

Religious leaders, the more charismatic the better, were being interviewed about Armageddon, which provided an endless stream of “the end of the world is nigh” sound bites. Paranoia spread. People either locked themselves away or hit the streets. Those in their houses made the right choice, but more than a few became violent with anyone on their doorstep. Those in the streets adopted a carpe diem mentality.

Riots erupted in Los Angeles and Chicago.

And the press ate it up, fueling the end-of-days flames. Especially Fox, whose broadcasts took on a religious fervor. Acts of violence went uncensored. Journalists in the studio spoke with animated gesticulations, pitching voices, and wild eyes. Those on the streets cursed, shoved the drunk, and in Los Angeles, came under gunfire.

As Duncan passed by a now-empty office, he heard one such dramatic newscast come to a halt with, “We interrupt our continuing coverage of Pandemic Twenty-ten with a message from the president of these United States of America.”

He paused at the door, looking at the wall-mounted TV. His face appeared, grim and serious, but with a practiced spark of hope. The words he had spoken an hour previous were still fresh in his mind. “Friends, we find ourselves in a difficult and troubling situation.”

“Sir,” Boucher’s voice interrupted the TV as the recorded Duncan went on to explain the disease and provide a more accurate portrayal of the situation. Washington, D.C., was under quarantine. The airports had been shut down. And while neither a curfew or martial law had been ordered, they were options on the table in cities where looting had become rampant. And then he gave them hope. America’s finest were on the task and he was confident—confident—a solution would be found.

“Sir,” Boucher repeated.

Duncan looked at him.

“Are you sure about this?”

“I am.”

“You’re taking a big risk.”

“The whole world is at risk.”

Boucher let himself smile. “You’re a better man than most.”

“We’ll see.”

“And when the world comes knocking at our doorstep tomorrow morning? They’ll expect to hear from you again, you know.”

“I’ll be back in time for breakfast.”

Boucher rolled his neck, popping a few vertebrae. “And if you’re not?”

“If I’m not back? Then it won’t matter, will it?”

A frown creased beneath Boucher’s mustache. “No. It won’t.”

They resumed walking, leaving the recorded Duncan behind as he continued to urge calm. After two flights of stairs they entered an underground