A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [40]
They crossed under the dome in silence, but from up ahead, Griff heard voices. The clamor grew louder as the team approached Statuary Hall.
“Isn’t everybody still inside the House Chamber?” he asked, visualizing the floor plans he had studied on the way across country.
“We’ve moved some people. President’s orders.”
“Varied exposure levels?”
“No one’s told us. They just said who to move and where.”
Griff’s containment suit was sweltering, but still, the scene in elegant Statuary Hall sent a chill through him. Entering between Washington and Jefferson, the team stepped into a large, two-story semicircular space, crowded with people. Many of them were lying on blankets, spread out across the richly polished checkered floor. Others were propped against the pedestals displaying the busts of heroes from each of the states.
In a bizarre, unsettling juxtaposition, those comprising the miserably uncomfortable assemblage were decked in their finest evening wear, much of which had been ripped in response to the heat. A Civil War infirmary scene was Griff’s first impression—minus the bloodied bandages and hand-carved crutches.
Portable lighting augmenting that from the chandelier bathed the scene in an eerie glow.
There were several cots set up in a row along one wall, bearing mostly older men and women with IV drips in their arms. Near them were several large trash cans, filled to overflowing with rubbish, and beside the cans were columns of cartons, stacked five high, with stenciled lettering on the side that read: US ARMY RATIONS.
The voices fell into a deathly silence as Griff and the others made their way into the room. A number of the detainees, haggard, shirts open, hair undone, slowly rose to their feet and followed Griff’s movements with their eyes. Then, without warning, a small, frustrated mob, ten or twelve, with madness in their eyes, rushed him. Some clawed at his suit. Others tried getting at his mask.
“What’s going on?” a woman shouted. “Tell us!”
“Help us! Please!”
“Who are you?”
“For God’s sake, do something! Get us out of here!”
The violent reaction was totally unexpected. One break in his suit, one microscopic tear in the seal between his mask and hood, and he was dead. Griff batted away at their arms. The soldiers and Secret Service agents, also taken by surprise, delayed several seconds before finally wading into the crowd, shoving some people aside and others to the floor. The agents pulled their sidearms and two of the soldiers swung the barrels of their M16s, gashing open a distinguished-looking gentleman’s face. A woman came at Griff from the side. Her hair was matted down with sweat and her makeup had run rivers along both cheeks.
“Please,” the women begged, “I have a son. A husband. If it’s just a flu virus, why can’t we leave?”
“Flu?” Griff repeated. “Is that what you were told?”
“Yes.”
Griff clenched his jaw and pushed his way past the woman, being led and followed closely by those assigned to protect him.
“Wait,” one of the soldiers behind Griff said.
The group turned. He was an African American, with the broad shoulders and narrow waist of a serious weight lifter. Now, the soldier stood motionless, holding his right arm out. The tape safeguarding his wrist had been torn away, and the weld between the hand and arm was ripped, exposing his skin.
“I’m sorry,” Griff whispered, placing his arm around the shoulders of the man who had quite possibly saved Griff’s life at the cost of his own. “I’m really sorry.”
Without a word, the soldier set his rifle down, placed his helmet beside it, turned, and head high, walked back into Statuary Hall.
For a time, no one could speak.