Who Will Lead Us?

By Dakoda Thiemkey

It wasn't supposed to be real, and it really wasn't supposed to be her.

The President of the United States has vanished. Heather knows she must now lead America and the world, but everything she once believed in is changing. With no support, experience, or hope, Heather must decide between governing a divided nation or ca

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Apr 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798890417039

Dakoda Thiemkey

In 2019, he graduated from Ferris State University with a degree in Medical Laboratory Science, but his passion for writing originated in the second grade. Dakoda is an avid reader who enjoys studying the Bible and helping others see Jesus on every page. He presently resides in Hudsonville, Michigan.

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Dedication

To my parents: Rich & Jodi

And to my siblings: Marshall, Makena, Carston, & Kyran

Table of Contents

Hour One

Hour One and a Half

Hour Two

Hour Two and One Quarter

Hour Two and a Half

Hour Three

Hour Five and a Half

Hour Nine

Hour Nine and One Quarter

Hour Twenty-Two

Hour Twenty-Four

Hour Twenty-Six

Hour Twenty-Six and One Quarter

Hour Twenty-Six and a Half

Hour Twenty-Six and Three Quarters

Hour Twenty-Seven

Hour Thirty-Two and One Half

Hour Forty-Eight

Hour Forty-Nine

Hour Fifty-One

Hour Fifty-Three and One Half

Hour Sixty-Eight

Hour Sixty-Nine

Hour Seventy

Hour Seventy-Two

Hour Seventy-Two and One Half

Hour Seventy-Three

Hour Seventy-Three and One Quarter

Hour Seventy-Three and One Half

Hour Seventy-Five

Hour Seventy-Five and One Quarter

Hour Seventy-Six

Hour Seventy-Six and One Quarter

Hour Seventy-Six and One Half

Hour Seventy-Six and Three Quarters

Hour Seventy-Seven

Hour Seventy-Seven and One Quarter

Hour Seventy-Seven and One Half

Hour Seventy-Eight

Hour Seventy-Eight and One Half

Hour Seventy-Eight and Three Quarters

Hour Seventy-Nine

Hour Seventy-Nine and One Quarter

Hour Seventy-Nine and Three Quarters

Hour Eighty

Hour Eighty and One Quarter

Hour Eighty and One Half

Hour Eighty and Two Thirds

Hour Eighty-One

Hour One Hundred Thirty

Hour Unknown

Hour One

Red. All she could see was red. Or was it black? The pain in the back of her head swelled like a tumor bent on devouring her soul. Vision blurring, confused, and wanting to disappear—no, no, what a horrible choice of words…no more disappearances—wanting to crawl deep inside a pit and die, Heather tried to keep her countenance somewhere between solemn and dignified. Thousands of words filled her mind as the waves of anxiety crashed onto her heart’s beaches, eroding the hope she had once planted there. The moisture of her mouth fled, depositing itself as tiny bombs on her brow as a byproduct of an internal battle only she was aware of. Shallow, her breathing became as irregular as her eye movement as she looked for anyone—anyone at all—who could explain what was happening.

What was she feeling? she asked herself when her mind allowed her a glimmer of self-reflection. It wasn’t rage. Rage was watching ISIS hold her brother’s head as a trophy while they dragged his body away in an orange jumpsuit. It wasn’t sorrow. Sorrow was Grandpa Paul succumbing to the coronavirus and missing the birth of her eldest son, his namesake, by just a few days. It wasn’t even horror. Horror was an inability to scream when the producer would take her to his office. This was different. This was a pain she did not understand, that she could not understand any more than a tree could comprehend why it was being chopped down at its source.

After pushing her long, blonde hair behind her ear, Heather pressed her right hand against her face to cover her quaking lips. Baby lotion. Her hands would always smell like that now. She had soothed Shawn’s diaper rash before this…but was he gone too? Oh, God, not Shawn too! Bile slithered back down to her wretched stomach as she swallowed the poisonous thought. Through wet eyes, she thought of Paul and Quinton. Where were they? Was Miriam all right? Who had she last given Liberty to? She was undoubtedly an awful mother. She shouldn’t have taken this job. She knew it was too much, that they’d need normal lives. Were any of their lives still anything but vapor in the wind now, taken from her like all the others?

She could not cry, though. It was not the time to cry. It was the time to be brave. Shallow breaths became steady ones. Eight in. Hold. Eight out. Repeat. But she still saw the red. Like a trident being thrust into her heart, mind, and soul, the blood-colored flames blazed in her mind pyrotechnically. As what she had once believed to be true and possible deteriorated under the gravitational pull of the dark dystopia she felt herself descending into, her sense of togetherness completely fell apart. Crimson streaks undoubtedly stained the whites of her otherwise beautiful blue eyes while the flush on her cheeks peaked through her makeup.

Heather Joy Kemp wasn’t even supposed to be here, and now she hardly wanted to be, but this was her duty. The thirty-six-year-old was the youngest to ever serve in her present capacity. In about forty-five seconds, she’d be the youngest and first woman in her next.

The Supreme Court Justice opened the Bible.

Heather placed her left hand down and raised her right.

Repeat after me: I, state your name.

I, Heather Joy Kemp.

Do solemnly swear.

Do solemnly swear.

That I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States.

That I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States.

And will to the best of my ability.

And will to the best of my ability.

Preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.

Preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.

So help you God.

So help me God.

Congratulations, Madam President!

Hour One and a Half

How can the world change so much in two hours? Heather wasn’t old enough to remember when the Twin Towers fell, but the stories others told—like Grandpa Paul’s recollections of Pearl Harbor—had given her a vague, though non-preparatory, idea. This was the stuff of movies, fantasy novels, and folk legends. It wasn’t supposed to be real, and it really wasn’t supposed to be her.

The options being presented to her were called possible explanations by those who had degrees and letters behind their names. They were called suspicious activities and credible leads by those who worked for the alphabet soup of intelligence agencies. What really confused her were the science personnel (she didn’t know where they’d come from…didn’t much care either) talking of multiple universes and physics God Himself couldn’t understand. Then again, several other groups suspected God—or a god—had acted.

Packed with people, the room grew warmer by the minute, the temperature a manifestation of the heated arguments those before her were having while she, the new president of the United States, awkwardly sat and listened. Shawn was gone, and she knew it. No one told her, but they didn’t have to. The doors had been locked after everyone had entered, so his attendant had no way of reaching her, but telepathically, her heart simply knew. Lips and tongues continued to race while hands and fists slammed tables and gestured emphatically. Even in times of utter shock and chaos, all these delinquents cared about was being right, preferring to be followed into death rather than led into life.

Like a filter, however, baby Shawn blocked all their babbling. Born just one month before her inauguration, her youngest baby had been her most complicated pregnancy, but over a year later, he’d grown like a weed into a cute, helpless little piglet. His hands had been too small to wrap around Obi’s fingers yet, although her husband did have large hands. She always thought that’s why he was such a good football player back when they were younger. They had been innocent back then, and she and Obi were together forever, but that did not prevent internet trolls and false campaign ads from redefining history. Opposition dossiers had made unbecoming claims about her past, all of which had been unequivocally bogus but popular nonetheless. The threats, curses, and obscenities she faced…if they only knew what she’d been through. Shawn was gone now, though, and he wouldn’t even remember her face.

Madam President? Madam President!

Far too polite for even crass words to slip out, Heather almost cursed timorously as the man next to her gently reached over and took her hand in his. While it was still strong, she could feel the folded wrinkles of age sliding across her own much smoother skin. As if awakening from a dream, the president snapped back, but she quickly wished to fade further into her self-induced coma. Dozens of men and women dressed in uniforms or suits sat around the long, dark Situation Room table, bookended with the American flag on one end and the presidential seal on the other. The walls, lined with several monitors, were a boring shade of beige, but the constant flashing of iPads and rustling of papers gave the room its appropriate nervous tension. Heather, who last year had ordered the carpeting in the room be redone, was at the head of the table, not that she remembered sitting down. Evidently, she was failing to run the meeting she was supposed to be in charge of since the zoo in front of her was descending into further squawks and howls.

President Kemp? You may want to interject here soon….

It was CIA Deputy Director Stephen Tisdale. Determining his boss must too have vanished, the deputy, whose tightly-cut hair had long ago turned silver, had more-or-less promoted himself to acting director, as had several of the men and women in the room. His deep, brown eyes smiled at Heather, whispering in a language she could not hear but understood nonetheless. He reminded her of Grandpa Paul in that way, so she decided to take a deep breath, call the meeting to order, and bear her burden. She would lead them. Tisdale, however, was older than her by about thirty years or so. Second guessing herself, Heather pleaded back with her own eyes, asking the director to use his bass voice and commanding presence to draw the other’s attention instead, but alas, this was her meeting, her country, and her duty. Deep breath.

She would lead them.

With a sudden and unexpected burst, Heather slammed both of her palms into the table emphatically and rose to her feet like a firecracker! The jolt shook the room still as if a poltergeist had just swept by, but the new silence was almost more off-putting than the disrespectful jabbering. Unblinking eyes focused on her and her alone, unable to hide their surprise. Though they had deemed her comparable to the delicate purple flower of her namesake, Heather was apparently capable of inner strength. Truth be told, the woman had surprised herself even more, but she still paused a moment, dramatizing the fact that she—yes, this blonde thirty-six-year-old with no political history—was now their duly elected leader.

With all due respect, the president began slowly while carefully glaring around the room, "I do believe I am the one who just took the oath of office for the chair I presently occupy. That is unless anyone else would like to take it?"

It wasn’t a threat so much as an offer, but her tone of voice suggested otherwise. If it was possible, she gladly would have allowed any one of the more seasoned politicians to take this cup from her, but she had been placed here by the will of the people, so she would do her best to serve. This was her responsibility to carry and her law to fulfill, not theirs. Dismayed, the mother wished to hide her face and flee to the mountains, but she stood firm despite knowing their favor was against her.

Good, Heather replied when met with more silence. She straightened her back and lifted her hands from the table before adjusting her dark blue trouser suit and slowly sitting back down in her black, leather armchair. With her arms folded across her chest, she continued: I want to know what happened, how it happened, and why it happened. I want to know who’s responsible, how wide-ranging it is, and if it’s going to happen again. Now, if we can all act like adults, we can begin creating a list of theories and rationalizations starting with Director Tisdale on my left and going around the table, so unless anyone has definitive proof as to what just occurred—

Madam President, with all due respect, we can’t just sit here and wait for you to weigh options, a man dressed in his military uniform bellowed from the back of the room, rudely interrupting the president.

General Gordon J. Collins had been the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for President Ross since the start of his term and had been serving admirably as his top military advisor. While his hawkish strategy periodically pushed the pendulum from peace through strength to inflammatory provocations, his Medal of Honor demanded respect regardless of anyone’s opinion of him. Decorated, his jacket had a plethora of colorful military ribbons, a testament to the eighty-two-year-old African American’s years of sacrifice and honor. He believed in American exceptionalism so much that he’d often dare the country’s enemies to make good on their threats, and while he’d never lost a game of chicken, Heather—despite being a civilian—recognized volatility when she saw it. Now was not the time for big sticks. Speaking softly would work just as well.

General Collins—who’d arrived so quickly, he’d forgotten a hat to cover his bald head—continued to speak so loudly the president wondered if he really was losing his hearing. We appreciate your suggestion, Madam President, but Nathaniel would have at least had our latest stealth jets in the air by now! His faith in technology and warriors over negotiation and diplomats was the worst-kept secret in Washington, but in the few interactions she’d had with him before, the president knew General Collins was simply a good man who loved his country, baby back ribs, and the Washington Nationals; however, she now needed him to respect her as he had President Nathaniel Ross.

That’s not even close to true, Heather replied sternly as if telling one of her sons to behave, and it wasn’t a suggestion, but if I ever need anything from you, I’ll be sure to ask. The man’s thick Adam’s apple twitched before he thought better of firing back. Lips pressed, he nodded for his new commander in chief to continue. Having quelled the army, Heather finally returned the floor to Director Tisdale.

Clearing his throat, Tisdale cracked his neck and shuffled through a series of papers and notes he’d previously set in front of himself and the president in a manila folder. "All right then. Well, just so we’re all on the same page, at precisely 12:00 today, about an hour and a half ago now, the phenomenon being called the vanishings took place. The CIA and other agencies are working on numbers, but with many of our own staff missing, those estimates might take some time to gather, Madam President."

What about early estimates? Heather prodded.

Tisdale shook his head, looking as lost as she felt. It’s looking like this was a global phenomenon to some degree, so we can’t say for certain. It could be hundreds or thousands, perhaps millions, or even as many as two or three billion! The point is, Madam President, we don’t know and won’t know until our allies begin sharing information. At any rate, to my knowledge, the CIA at least had no intelligence relating to a terrorist attack of this nature today, but of course, we’re not ruling anything out. He shrugged, revealing his suit was doing a poor job concealing his pit stains. His shiny, mint green tie still looked rather distinguished, though, the president noticed.

Heather took a deep breath and placed her elbows on the table, leaning forward to rest her chin on her folded hands. Tisdale continued to speak, but for a moment, her mind wandered down a yellow brick road. Hundreds? Thousands? Millions? Billions? She knew she was as cursed as the titan Atlas, forced to carry the world on her shoulders, and like the mythological beast, the president sensed no forthcoming relief. As the Central Intelligence Agency melted into the Clowning Institute of America, Heather resisted the urge to nervously gnaw at her pink fingernails. She and Liberty had gotten matching nail polish the other day….

Terrorism.

Climate change.

Aliens.

Interdimensional travel.

Iran. Korea. China. Russia.

Nuclear war.

New technologies.

The matrix.

God or gods.

The Mandela Effect.

A virus.

A simulation.

No, none of it made any sense at all, but that was the thing, wasn’t it? Since nobody knew anything about what had happened, the list of explanations and suspects was rather long, but unlike the game of Clue Heather had enjoyed growing up, she knew this mystery wasn’t going to be solved in three easy parts.

It didn’t take long for reports to come in that the West was dealing with substantially more disappearances than Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, although the chaos caused around the world was equal across the board. There was no point in keeping track of every plane that had crashed after the pilot had vanished, every train that had been derailed, or every subway that had come to a devastatingly quick stop. Hospitals around the country were flooded with car accident victims. Suicides were trending on TikTok and Twitter, with people unable to accept what they had seen, and since electricity, power, and water were out in many parts of the world, the odds of peace shining through into the darkness were very, very long.

Different directors and deputy directors explained their findings (or lack thereof) using the large television screen as Tisdale’s initial rant wandered into their respective territories. Maps flashed before Heather faster than she had ever flipped through Instagram photos. People wanted her to nuke Moscow or Beijing on shaky intelligence with reports of a loud burst—some called it a trumpet, others a blast or a shout—being followed by an astronomically bright light, suggesting the possible detonation of some device, but there was no residue, no heat signature, and nothing on the satellite footage. The reports weren’t anything official, but it was hard to ignore everyone who managed to witness the event say the same thing.

Tisdale continued to hold the floor: The oddest thing perhaps is these individuals seemingly vanished right out of their clothes, in many cases leaving them behind! Bemoaning his own personal loss, Director Tisdale broke from his official report to try and express his dolor. He had been FaceTiming his granddaughter, who had been born with Down’s syndrome, when the vanishings happened, so Tisdale had firsthand knowledge of the sorrow caused by watching a lacey dress fall hollowly to the grass. It’s been the most sorrow I’ve felt since…oh, maybe in forever, but before you ask, Madam President, we’ve spoken with secret service, and President Ross has been confirmed as a victim of the vanishings, but all our agencies are working on locating him as soon as possible. Until then, the constitution says you’re charge here.

For God’s sake, Tisdale, Heather passively replied with her head bowed. Scratching her hair, she added, And can someone either tell me something I don’t know or otherwise turn the topic away from the freaking order of succession? A flabbergasted Tisdale balked for a moment, like a dog unaware it was wearing a shock collar. Heather was usually rather pleasant if not reserved, declining to resurrect her more animated side she had buried after retiring from acting and podcasting, but the director—and everyone else in the room—could see through her terrible poker face. The stress, the newness, and the disorder were collapsing her cosmos, so her lashing out was not meant to be projected onto them. Her empathy was being held hostage, but regretfully, not one of the politicians in the room held the ransom.

There was silence for no more than twenty seconds before the president spoke again.

I need to get on TV. Get the remaining media personnel in here and call a press conference. The American people need leadership, not cowards. They’ll need answers, not hypotheses. We’ll reconvene in thirty minutes. I need to check on something. With more force than necessary, she slapped Tisdale’s reports back into their folder, promptly concluding the meeting. When she rose, everyone else did as well out of respect. Earlier in the day, she’d been like one of them. Now, she quite literally determined when men sat down and when they stood up. Indeed, her new responsibilities were quite great, and Heather still wasn’t sure she was ready.

War, however, was inevitable even if half of the speculations were true, Heather thought to herself. Western allies would blame the Islamic and communist regimes of the East. Complete economic collapse was the only logical conclusion after the massive population loss, the extent of which was still being determined, and basic supplies like food, water, medicine, and power would soon be as valuable as gold, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. People would go into panic mode, hoarding and stealing whatever they could, defending their own at all costs like wolverines. There would be a demand for action, which presented a rare opportunity to unify the country. The problem was, she had no solutions—only problems.

Heather knew what the feeling was now.

She felt dead inside.

Hour Two

Something was tugging at his arm, but he couldn’t open his eyes to check what it was. Why was it so itchy? The man felt hungover, but rolling his head to the side revealed he’d evidently been placed in someone else’s bed: his own pillow didn’t smell near this clean. The hair on his arms twitched, agitated by the gauze wrapped around there and other parts of his body. Torturously, prongs could be felt sitting inside his nostrils, goading him to sneeze. Meanwhile, the disoriented man tried to remember what had happened to him. Where was he? How long had he been here? Why did everything hurt?

Who was he?

His ears suddenly turned on like a radio, transmitting a soft, rhythmic beeping sound to his brain. Lub-dub…lub-dub…lub-dub…. He was alive, at least technically. Despite being closed, his eyes told him he was in a well-lit room, and while he still had much pain in his—well, technically, it was easier to list the places that didn’t hurt—it was clear whoever put him here intended to keep him comfortable, although he would’ve preferred pants to the drafty gown he presently wore.

Like a baby seeing the world for the first time, the man squinted at the lights as he finally pealed his eyelids off like a used Band-Aid. His senses had not lied to him: he was in a hospital, wearing a dorky, powder-blue gown with an IV jammed into his right arm. Everything else around him was perfectly white: white walls, white bedsheets, white shades, white floor, and white doors. The astute cleanliness, however, had no effect on his memory. Try as he might, the recollection of his arrival eluded him like a golden snitch—not that it mattered much. If he couldn’t even remember who he was, how was he supposed to know anything else?

The TV was off but mounted above his head on the opposing wall. A bedside table was to his left, presumably adjusted in height for his convenience, with what looked like a pitcher of water on it and a small, plastic cup, but the window shades had frustratingly been left closed, so he had no idea what floor he was on. Was he on the ground level, in the emergency room? Had he gone insane earlier, forcing them to admit him to the psych ward? The stale morning taste left in his mouth, meanwhile, suggested he’d been passed out for some time, at least, perhaps a few hours, but he didn’t feel sticky or sweaty. In fact, it felt like someone had carefully washed his face while he was sleeping. His eyes slowly followed the rest of the room. A bathroom door was shut to his left, but of more interest was the medical chart stuck to the wall.

John Doe.

Well, the nurses didn’t know who he was either. Lovely. Maybe now that he was awake, though, someone would walk in and explain what was happening. In the meantime, John Doe’s boredom got the best of him, and since he still remembered how to operate a TV remote, he decided he might as well put the news on or something; however, he was forced to quickly turn it back off. Some things remain best unseen.

John Doe didn’t know who he was or where he was, but he knew one thing: never in his lifetime had he seen such terror in just a few minutes of broadcasting.

Hour Two and One Quarter

"Good afternoon. Today at precisely 12:00 Eastern Standard Time, the phenomenon, which shall here and henceforth be referred to as the vanishings, took place. Millions, if not billions, of individuals in every corner of the earth were suddenly taken from us in the twinkling of an eye. For complete transparency, the White House can confirm that President Ross is among the missing victims, and as a result, Congress and I have enacted the Twenty-Fifth Amendment. I was sworn in by Chief Justice King in the Oval Office immediately thereafter and have since been the acting president of the United States.

"This is a grievous time for all of us, but it does not have to stay that way. The United States and its allies are committed to locating the vanished and returning them safely to their loved ones, and we will stand against any power or dominion—of this world or any other—that dares to threaten our way of life. In times of uncertainty, I know one thing for certain. Like steadfast doves in the rain, we will sing again. We will soar on the wings of the great eagle and rise from these ashes like the mighty phoenix, leading the world to brighter days. Darkness will never have the last say in America.

"Fellow Americans, let us in this moment remind ourselves of the unity we as a people are so capable of. Let us look to each other for courage and assurance, for we are not a nation of Blacks and Whites, or of Muslims and Christians, or of parties and independents. We are but one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all! Turn to your neighbor, whoever they are, and remember this: your pain is their pain, their pain is our pain, and our pain is your pain. The coalition we intend on forming will be stronger, braver, and more powerful than any other in history because these events have brought a new kind of resolve to our people, and while our fear may never have been greater, our uniting hope has never been brighter.

"In this hope, we would like to convey what the United States and her allies are doing to bring resolution to the vanishings, and we promise to bring you regular updates from this very podium. Our rapid response teams are implementing and developing courses of action intended on discovering the cause of the vanishings, eliminating future threats, and, once again, returning those we are missing back home to their loved ones.

"Furthermore, in this hope, the United States has one message for the world: we will absolutely remain the global leader of the free world. We led the world when trench warfare and rabid rats ate at the very heart of Europe. We led the world when the Nazis and their heinous Hitler began forcing a new world order upon us by eliminating those whom they deemed inferior. We led the world through proxy wars in Vietnam and Korea, proving communism’s corrosive culture should not be allowed to run rampant: human beings must be free. We led the world when terrorists from the Middle East galvanized radicalized individuals to wage war against anyone who was not like themselves. We led the world in Ukraine and Taiwan, showing everyone that David can still beat Goliath.

"Today, we are presented with a new challenge, a challenge unlike those our forefathers fought, but one thing remains true: we will continue to lead the world to secured prosperity, we will lead the world to justice, and we will lead the world to a new and brighter hope.

God bless you, God bless this planet, and God bless the United States of America!

Thank you!

The hastily written speech did little to address anyone’s concerns about what had happened, but what was she supposed to say? Heather could already see the media pundits shredding her statement as weak, and honestly, she couldn’t blame them: she’d said a lot of words without saying anything at all. Favoring more meaningless metaphors and remanences rather than direct accusations or recommendations, Heather realized though she had once despised traditional politicians, she could easily become one of the swamp creatures. This would not do, of course, but the people needed to know, above all else, that her administration was capable of taking this moment by the horns. They needed to see her face and hear her voice. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

The media personnel were upset when she refused to take questions, but Heather had been advised not to, knowing any answers given would be purely speculative in nature. With one quick snap, the president shut the black binder protecting her statement, brought it close to her chest, turned, and began to exit stage right. Sounds of her clicking heels were soon drowned out by the gaggle of reporters she’d invited into the briefing room, bobbing their heads and microphones up and down like seagulls gawking at a fish. President Kemp, however, was no fish.

Does your administration know who’s responsible for these attacks? How the heck would she know that? The phenomenon happened two and a half hours ago without a trace! Is the United States prepared to hold whoever did this responsible? Again, that accusation assumed someone was responsible, and frivolous accusations were far from something Heather wanted in her foreign affairs file. Are plans being developed to restore power and water to many parts of the country? What about the impending economic collapse? Seriously? Billions of people had just gone missing, and he was worried about his Bitcoin. Where is President Ross? Morons. When will we know where these people went and if we can get them back? Does the White House have any idea how many people are missing? Nope, she was as clueless as anyone else. In fact, like a teacher whose students had surpassed their master, she felt any one of them in the room could probably have stepped up to the plate and batted better than her.

Dipping past the American flag, Heather—head down, refusing to look at the reporters—sulked back into the bowels of the White House, leaving members of the media to dismiss themselves. She wondered how many of them wished to be home, checking on family and friends, versus those who simply wanted to roast her for political or personal reasons. It didn’t matter. The red coals they wished to cook her over couldn’t hold a candle to the death she continued to feel inside. Besides, being self-conscious wasn’t going to help her, especially when she was scheduled to resume her emergency meeting shortly. The clock was ticking, and many Americans were suspecting that if the United States didn’t act first, someone else would. Other nations, however, were a little less…cautious…than the Kemp administration planned to be, and soon, Heather would learn of a few such nations that were preparing to act before the facts were out.

The thud surprised her. Catching her breath after nearly stumbling in her heels, Heather finally looked up again. Pungent, the smell of cigarette smoke violated her nose as she regained her equilibrium. Seismic waves continued to bounce around the man’s beer belly for several seconds, even after she’d managed to detach herself from it, but Heather kept the observation to herself. He was taller than her five-feet-ten-inch frame by at least eight or nine inches, if not more, and his presence demanded those around him feel a certain level of intimidation. The president brought her eyes up, past the hackneyed red, white, and blue tie, past the massive, ginger beard surrounding her company’s glutinous face, and finally settled on a set of piercing, dark eyes. His eyebrows were angry, and as he folded his arms across his chest, the man’s right index finger was getting ready to point and gesture in a raging lecture.

What the heck was that? I’ve seen Donald Duck give better press conferences!

Heather momentarily felt her throat jump like a pogo stick. Colt McCannon was the Speaker of the House, but for her money, she couldn’t figure out why. Perhaps seniority had something to do with it or the fact that no one dared run against him. Earning the nickname Cannonball, McCannon was despised by nearly everyone in Washington. (He told people the moniker came from his ability to smash through walls and get difficult bills passed. Everyone behind his back knew it was just because he was fat.) He was, however, a decent negotiator and did, to his credit, know the ins and outs of congressional rules and politics, so despite his personality flaws, he did his job and did it well. Still, if the good people of Massachusetts ever decided to vote for someone else….

Colt…I wasn’t expecting… Heather began to stammer, checking to make sure she hadn’t dropped any of her papers.

Of course, you weren’t! You’re as lost as Hansel and Gretel! McCannon snapped back. Capped with grossly yellowed fingernails, the man’s meaty sausage fingers were more inflated than the last time Heather had seen him. She hadn’t felt this defensive since her father had caught her sneaking home far too late one night back in high school. After offering some vulgarities, the speaker continued shouting, "And who’s the imbecile who drafted that statement, anyway? ‘For complete transparency, the White House can confirm that President Ross is among the missing victims.’ You think we should be telling the world we lost the most powerful man alive?"

Boiling magma nearly spewed from Heather’s mouth, and while she wanted to unleash a fury of frustration and pain onto the boorish man, she told herself to stand down, unable to conjure a witty response in the moment. Bothered by the confrontation, Heather lost her vocality to the nefarious legislator, whose tirade was squeezing her throat like a boa constrictor. Trying to find her song, the president opened her mouth to reply more professionally, but McCannon started venting again. Shaking his head in fake disappointment, he became increasingly emphatic and loud, like a coach berating his player for a severe misstep. The Cannonball, however, was much more frustrated than even Bobby Knight had ever been. He was borderline psychotic.

You know, I advised Nathaniel not to pick you as his running mate. You weren’t meant for this. You’re just a cheerleader playing wannabe with the big boys. You think making movies and doing podcasts can prepare you for this? he fumed, staring her down like a professional boxer searching for weakness.

"Worked well enough for Reagan…" Heather mumbled under her breath before being cut off again. Her eyes rolled before her gaze dropped to the floor. When this was all over, perhaps she could get these walls repainted, maybe get that portrait of dogs playing poker hung up that Quinton liked. With a heavy sigh, she decided to wait out this firestorm. She wasn’t going to stoop to McCannon’s level or be intimidated by him. He couldn’t say anything she hadn’t heard before, but his words still hurt her like sticks and stones. Nervous jitters still found their exit, though, as she quietly drummed her nails against the binder. The speaker, however, subtly noticed her irritation and made a point of taking it personally.

And how come I wasn’t invited into your emergency response meeting before this? McCannon belligerently raged. What kind of shenanigans are you pulling, Heather? I know what you said too, how you offered for anyone else to take your seat! You think you’re being tough? Let me tell you: we all see right through the act. That wasn’t a dare: it was the pathetic whimper of a dying horse waiting for the glue factory, not Secretariat. If you wanted to run this country through a crisis like this correctly, you should’ve had me in that meeting instead of cowering behind propaganda!

Where the other White House staffers were, Heather did not know—another thing added to her list of things she wasn’t understanding. Surely, this classified as some sort of verbal abuse, not to mention talking this way to the sitting president was downright political suicide in most cases. How McCannon had never been censured by the House, Heather could not answer. This was not the first time he’d been so aggressive, nor would it be his last.

What? You’re not gonna say anything? McCannon continued while Heather pressed her lips together and continued to look away. Look, if I’m supposed to be your vice president—

Heather’s eyes shot wide open like melons about to burst. A sly little smirk crept across McCannon’s face, knowing he’d finally cracked his opponent. He had delivered a beautiful knockout punch, and Heather’s nearly drooling, confused face was the perfect reward for his heavyweight achievement. Puffing his chest out and placing his hands on his hips, the speaker moved his grotesque stomach uncomfortably close to the president’s personal bubble. It was hard not to stare at and wonder how hairy it probably was under his suit. Neurons fired in Heather’s brain, trying to rationalize the development. Despite advancing at the expense of another, McCannon was quite obviously rather proud of his technical promotion (even though, constitutionally speaking, he had fewer obligations and influence than if he’d remained the Speaker of the House). As sorry as Heather felt for herself, the belt around the man’s waist was possibly in an even worse position, ready to send its buckle soaring like a rock from a sling, but this giant wasn’t about to fall any time soon.

Vice President McCannon again didn’t wait for Heather to reply. His trap had snapped, and she was the animal captured in his snare, waiting feverishly for help or death to come. He, in turn, was the hunter, the single arbiter of her fate.

Oh, now that’s good! he laughed like the devil. "What, they didn’t teach you about the line of succession in third grade down in Vegas, sweetie? You didn’t get to watch School House Rock with all the other kids? McCannon moved to scratch his unkempt facial hair, drawing attention to his crooked, black teeth, exposed by his sinister smile. Or perhaps everything does stay in Vegas, like your education? Either way, princess, you and I are gonna be working closely on this one!" He cocked his head to the side and winked mockingly.

Wow, did Heather hate this man! How long had she been standing here, being harassed without responding? The earth had suddenly lost a huge percentage of its population, and this charlatan was playing power cards in the hallway. Intimidated though she was, the president finally removed the cat from her tongue and retorted, Well, then, Mr. Vice President, I assume you’d like to—

Rolling his eyes, McCannon threw his hands into the air and, in a sarcastic tone of voice, replied, By all means, milady! Lead the way across your moat to your magical fairy castle! He turned around and gestured outward with his right hand, prompting her to lead the way down the hall. Inaudibly, Heather mumbled something to the effect of McCannon having the option to stop being a total dirtbag whenever it suited him.

Excuse me? McCannon snapped, turning his head faster than human reflexes should’ve allowed him to. His eyes dared the woman to question him, to clearly annunciate her gripe. Like Zeus descending from Olympus, the Cannonball stood as the self-proclaimed judge, jury, and executioner of their exchange, ready to strike down any defamation heralded his way. He demanded unearned respect and would extract it from anyone who was bold enough to dissent.

Gladly, Heather replied perceptibly, her voice shakier than she intended. By now, the people she trusted—the CIA, FBI, NSA, military, and the like—would have something to tell her, she hoped. McCannon would return to the Situation Room with her, where they could devise a plan of action together. It would satisfy the Cannonball and give her a reason to become a second fiddle without anyone thinking less of her. McCannon continued to blab on—whether to her or himself, Heather wasn’t sure anymore—about how he had his own theories of what had happened and how his gut had a good track record of being right.

The new vice president was making comments about patterns he thought he was noticing with the disappearances when suddenly, another young man burst from around the corner. He was Asian and appeared no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, but his blue and white checkered button-down shirt and wire-rim glasses suggested he wasn’t there on a field trip. Weighing even less than Heather did, the boy stopped just short of being the second person to bump into the president. Shiny with sweat, his forehead kept no secrets: he had run to them as quickly as he could. The boy began apologizing profusely while brushing his greasy, black hair out of his face.

Oh…oh, I…my apologies, madam. I didn’t mean to…I should’ve been looking, I mean, of course, I—I had to get here quick…er…fast because…but that’s no excuse to have almost…terribly sorry, again. It won’t happen again! I can assure you…. He took a deep breath and fidgeted by rubbing his sweaty palms together while avoiding direct eye contact.

McCannon cracked like a whip: Dang it, boy. Here, I thought Yoko Ono was the most hated Asian of all time! Do you think I pay you so you can live here instead of that godforsaken island you’re from just so that you can be a bumbling little Jap? Didn’t your stupid resume say you were multilingual? Dora the Explorer would’ve been a better hire! You can’t even speak the Queen’s English! Now, spit it out, or I swear, Hiroshima will be the second thing that people think about when they talk about nuked little Asian peoples! Threateningly, the vice president pounded his fist into his other hand a few times to ensure the sorry aid knew he meant business.

Racist and sexist. Great, just great, Heather thought to herself. She stood carefully between the boy and his boss, hoping to insulate the electric moment, and gripped her binder a little tighter. It wasn’t her first (and strangely, she wished it wouldn’t be her last) time breaking up two fighting parties…though her expertise was mainly in toy disputes and TV channel arbitrations.

Oh…sorry, Mr. McCannon! T-terribly sorry… the young aid stuttered. His almond-shaped pupils were about to crack, and his glasses were slipping further and further down his nose.

McCannon intolerantly bulldozed Heather out of his way, clearing the path for him to grab the boy firmly by the shoulder. His hands were easily large enough to crush the lad’s joint like a nectarine. Squeezing slowly, the new vice president—knowing the boy would wake the next morning with terrible bruises—made further threatening remarks. Only when Heather stepped in after grabbing her dropped binder did he release his suffocating grip. She caustically suggested the boy be allowed to speak his urgent message, so McCannon agreed, but only because further pressure on the shoulder probably would’ve popped the joint.

When commanded to speak, like a suspect taking the witness stand, the Japanese immigration student replied, Sir and Madam, they’re requesting you in the Situation Room immediately! They said your speech had ended a while ago, and they’re waiting for you, Madam President. They, uh, sorry, sorry. They said something about…I think, oh, what was it…the country with the warheads that doesn’t like us? Instinctively, the young attendant tensed up, wincing as if he expected to be given another round of abuses for the bad tidings he’d brought.

For crying out loud, Isamu! That narrows it down to half the planet! McCannon shouted before cursing under his breath. With one quick flick, the vice president shoved his aid, causing the boy to stumble against the wall as if hit by a truck. Squinting, Isamu quickly snagged his glasses and returned them to his defeated-looking face before McCannon could stomp on them like a dinosaur as he raged away, cursing under his breath. When the vice president was out of earshot, Heather quietly helped the young aide up before apologizing on McCannon’s behalf and sending him on his way.

Her kids, however, would have to wait. Were they scared and all alone? Had their caretaker disappeared? Why had Obi not called her? Flooded with duties, responsibilities, and oaths she was not ready for, Heather felt showers of pain rain down while her love thundered on. All she wanted was to embrace her family again, to check on them and know they were safe, and now she would have to wait again. In this moment, she would be brave, she would be strong, and she would lead them.

Hour Two and a Half

John Doe’s heart monitor beeped accelerando as if a hamster on its wheel was pumping his racing blood. The horror film he’d accidentally witnessed sent chills down his spine and adrenaline down his arteries. Surely, this was some sort of dream. The death toll tracker on the news ticker must’ve been a mistake, but then again…no power, no water, no communications? Why were there crashed vehicles of every kind in every part of the country? If it was true, whoever did this—be they witches or wolves—must’ve emerged from somewhere far more terrifying than even the Black Forest.

The television camera had focused in on New York City, where a subway conductor, along with several of his passengers, had vanished on his way to Brooklyn, causing the train to zoom uncontrollably until physics finished its course. Those who had not disappeared were either killed or maimed in the ensuing crash, but the hospitals and first responders reportedly didn’t have enough space to care for everyone who needed attention. Rivers of blood were running down the tracks, carrying the shiny shards of glass down the new currents. John Doe had been mesmerized, pulled under by the riptide of Styx.

A woman in her sixties had been sitting on a curbside, waiting to be attended to. Her blue jeans had been torn at the knees, and her long-sleeved shirt—with Lions written across the chest in Columbia blue—had gotten more oil and gas spilled on it than the subway engine. The skin on her cheeks had been burned off, exposing the muscles and tissue underneath, and her messy, hoary hair had been blackened by the debris. Stretching across her forehead, a gash the width of a pencil had complimented her clearly broken nose, wrist, and ankle. Every part of the grandmother