The Source: A Wildfire Prequel Read online

  CHAPTER 2

  Watching the World Die

  VANESSA BRANT CROSSED HER arms and stared out her bedroom window, fuming as she watched her parents standing in the middle of their long, curved driveway. She hoped Mother wouldn’t push too far. Her parents rarely argued, let alone in public, but Vanessa could tell by the set of his shoulders under his overcoat that Father was quickly approaching the limit of his patience.

  Thaddeus Brant, Senior Senator from Washington State, was not a warm man—he had never been “Daddy” or “Dad” to Vanessa, always “Father”. He tossed his briefcase into the back of his favorite Mercedes and motioned for his scheduler, Roger Trung, to get in the car.

  Her eyes moved to Sullivan, the long suffering driver, who pretended to ignore the fight by staring straight ahead as he held the door for Roger, then moved to the near side of the car. Vanessa smirked. The distinguished Senator’s servants excelled at not seeing things. Sullivan was her favorite to tease. Though ten years her senior, Vanessa had set her sights on him as soon as he’d joined the staff. Sullivan was a complete professional so far, though. Other than polite greetings, she’d never so much as caught him glance in her direction.

  She knew he watched her though, just like all the other male staff. There was always someone watching who pretended not to see. The butler and housekeepers watched her in the house, the gardeners while she was outside by the pool, and drivers like Sullivan watched her in the car.

  Her breath quickened and Vanessa smiled through the condensation on the window. She was excited by the thought of Sullivan watching her—she loved the attention almost as much as the thrill of doing something…naughty.

  A shout came from below as Vanessa refocused on her parents. Her mother waved her hands and leaned into the sedan’s open door, then suddenly stiffened and staggered back a step. A manicured hand emerged from the car’s shadowy interior and shoved her further so the door could close. Catching herself, Isobel Brant threw her shoulders back, lifted her chin and shook her golden hair in defiance as she straightened her cashmere cardigan and pulled it tight across her chest against the morning chill. Her eyes glittered as a perfect slash of a smile lit her profile. She even managed to wave as Sullivan accelerated Father’s car down the lane.

  As Mother turned back toward the house, her reddened cheek flashed against the smooth porcelain skin like a badge of honor. She glided forward, spine erect and head held high as she floated back into the house in her heels, cloaked in her dignity. The poise she’d learned on hundreds of pageant stages continued to serve her well.

  Vanessa found her fists clenched against the window as she watched. As a child, she’d been in awe of Father, the larger-than-life senator who brought her gifts and treats from his many business trips.

  Now that she was in college however, she realized there was little about the man to admire. She'd suffered through his awkward public displays of emotion for as long as she could remember. Last Christmas she’d brought a boy home to visit and been mortified when Father had kissed her under the mistletoe. He'd blamed it on the eggnog, claiming he thought she was Mother.

  Podium-pounding rage at campaign rallies, teary declarations of love for his family in interviews, and righteous indignation against his debate opponents—that was Senator Thaddeus Brant. In public, he was a tough-talking, backslapping, “man’s man” who was passionate about Free Speech, protecting family values and the 2nd Amendment. At home, he was cold, calculating, and drank too much most nights. She smirked—it would've never flown in Seattle, but out here they were closer to Idaho than the Pacific.

  But she’d never seen him strike her mother before.

  As she'd matured, Vanessa had grown close to her mother, Isobel. The former pageant queen from Oklahoma had lit up society with her marriage to the then-junior senator from eastern Washington at the tender age of 22. Vanessa had been born in Paris six months later and stayed in Europe long enough for the senator to adjust her birthday by a few months. Father hated scandal with a passion usually reserved for liberals and communists.

  "Vee darling, I'd like to talk with you," her mother said from the doorway.

  Vanessa turned, lost in thought. She hadn't heard her approach down the hallway. "He hit you?" she blurted.

  Isobel Brant turned her injured cheek further from sight and ran a hand through her golden hair. "Never mind that, Sweetie."

  Vanessa’s heart beat faster with the sudden image of Father's hands on her own face and throat. Revulsion rose up and the face changed to Sullivan’s—now shirtless in the underground garage as he washed a car.

  "Come here, Dear," her mother said, as she sat and patted the feathered comforter next to her on Vanessa’s bed. She perched there delicately, her back ramrod straight, bosom forward, ankles lightly crossed and tucked back. "You need to get ready to leave."

  "Where am I going?" asked Vanessa as she approached the luxurious bed. "I heard on the news that the government's considering a travel ban…" She stared out the window at the estate grounds locked in their gloomy winter shroud.

  Her mother reached up to brush Vanessa's hair behind her ear. It was their routine—in the morning after breakfast and before bed in the evening, Isobel came to brush Vanessa's lustrous golden hair until it gleamed. They would talk about anything and everything—it was their time, away from Father, away from the staff, away from the world—just the two of them.

  Even though Vanessa felt slightly silly—she was almost 20 years old—she still enjoyed her mother's strong, articulate hands running through her hair. It never failed to relax her. When Father tried, it was always rough and painful, but she knew better than to show even a hint of discomfort or weakness. His ruthlessness was in stark contrast to the gentle softness of her mother.

  "You'll be going with your father on his re-election campaign—"

  "What?" asked Vanessa, jerking away from the brush. "He's going on campaign? Now?"

  Isobel pulled her daughter's shoulders back until she could get the brush going again. "Yes, now. Whatever is going on out there," she soothed, "this is a mid-term year and he's up for re-election." She sighed. "None of it makes much sense. We need him here, especially with all this flu business, but I suppose I’ve never understood all that either."

  Vanessa rolled her eyes. Of course not—he married you for your looks, Mom, not your brains.

  "Where are we going?" she said out loud.

  Isobel murmured as she brushed, sweet nothings she'd hum when Vanessa was a child. That's how she knew her mother was worried. Vanessa reached up a hand and stopped the brush, turning her head to stare into her mother’s pale blue eyes.

  "Where are we going? Seattle again? Let me guess—it's a fundraiser ball?"

  Isobel Brant smiled. "No, he's taking you to a convention planning meeting in Dallas. From there he'll fly back to Olympia."

  Vanessa turned back to the window, the gentle pull of the brush hypnotic against her scalp. She stared out at the bare trees that lined the vast family estate. "A party planning meeting? For the convention?"

  "Yes," said her mother in a flat voice. "I think it's unnecessary, especially with…everything going on out there right now."

  "But why? Why are they doing this now?"

  "Your father is going to run for President in two years—you must know that?"

  Vanessa gasped. "He's not!" Visions of the White House flooded her mind. To be surrounded by so much power—so many men willing to do anything to please her and her father…she became acutely aware of how tight her shirt was against her chest.

  "He is," muttered her mother. "The party leaders want to meet you in person—they've already…seen me."

  There was something about the way she'd said 'seen' that made Vanessa's heart beat faster. The idea of being able to do and have whatever you wanted sent a rush of heat through her body. It was so easy—men tripped over themselves to please her already. As the daughter of a president? The possibilities were endless.

  Vaness
a turned away to hide her excitement. She wanted to jump up and run, she wanted to strip her clothes off, she wanted to kiss someone. She wanted to steal something, she wanted to feel the thrill of the hunt—or being hunted.

  Vanessa took a deep breath to control her voice and regain her mask of composure. "It sounds terribly dull."

  Her mother replied with a soft murmur. "It sounds dangerous. There's no reason to insist on flying to Dallas right now. This flu…it's so scary."

  Vanessa turned, "I'm sure it'll be fine. I'm healthy—I've had all my shots."

  "It's not that simple, Sweetheart."

  "Don't tell me you believe all that end of the world nonsense on TV?"

  Her mother stood then and moved from the bed to the large Chippendale armoire. Her hands trailed the delicate carvings, caressing the knobs and whorls. She continued thoughtfully around the room, picking up the small mementos and trinkets brought back from her husband’s travels.

  "I have a bad feeling about this trip, Dear. I'd prefer you not to go." She turned to face her daughter.

  Vanessa had never seen her mother so restless and unsettled. Isobel Brant was usually the model of stability. "Stay here—with me. Stay safe here at home, Vee."

  Vanessa folded her hands on her lap as she looked up at her mother. "I'm sure Father wouldn't go if it were dangerous."

  "There are riots…in the big cities. Dallas is—"

  "Father has people to protect us. We'll be fine."

  Isobel Brant wrapped her cardigan tight around her again and hugged her arms across her ample chest. "I…"

  You're jealous. You're jealous that I'm going and you're not. Vanessa couldn't help the smirk that tugged at her lips. You've been the golden beauty on his arm for decades and now it's my turn. She tossed her shining hair over a shoulder and examined her mother as a rival for the first time. She stood and moved closer to the woman who'd been more like a sister to her than a mother.

  "It'll be fine," Vanessa said, reaching out to gently touch her mother’s slender arm.

  "I just…the flu…"

  Vanessa looked up and saw herself in the cheval mirror in the corner of the room. She got up off the bed and moved a few steps away from her mother to examine the statuesque beauty staring back at her with blonde hair brushed to a gleaming shine. That golden cascade tumbled over her shoulders and kissed the tops of her breasts. Blood-red lips parted in a gleaming white smile, framed in her perfect heart-shaped face.

  She saw herself standing by Father in the White House Briefing Room, smiling out at adoring reporters, staring into cameras while millions of people watched them.

  "I'll be fine," she repeated, staring at herself. She sucked in her already taut stomach, the effort pushing out her chest just a little more. Turning slightly this way and that, she examined the effect it had on her profile and looked for any flaws but found none.

  "He really does need to keep his Chairmanship on the Senate Armed Services Committee," her mother said, as if she could justify the decision.

  "This is a big deal for him, isn't it?" asked Vanessa.

  He'll owe me, won't he?

  "I…I guess…but—"

  Vanessa turned suddenly and embraced her mother, surprising the older woman. She pressed herself close and kissed her mother on the cheek. "I'll be fine—you'll see. Father can take care of me."

  CHAPTER 3

  Arrival

  CHAD LOOKED OUT THE window at the smoke-shrouded sky as Fort Worth burned. He'd listened to the conversations on the radio between Dr. Raytheon and the soldiers throughout the long night as they’d crept ever closer to their destination. Fires had started somehow in the old cattle town—whether by rioters or simple absence of people to stop the conflagration—either way, the bus couldn't stop. Instead, the bus had been rerouted to Dallas-Fort Worth International. The airport would serve as the army's base of operations going forward.

  Olive drab army buses topped by flashing yellow strobe lights crisscrossed the airfield. The driver took them right out to a row of large commercial airline hangars. Chad stared into the open maw of the biggest doorway he'd ever seen.

  The army had brought huge, bulky generators and hundreds of cots, flooding the giant buildings with light. Doctors and nurses in scrubs—and more than a few in biohazard suits—shuffled survivors back and forth. His eyes roamed over the hive of activity, watching people line up for food and basic toiletries being unloaded from military supply trucks.

  Turning his gaze back to the runway, Chad stared at the bustling chaos, oblivious to the people around him as they stood to disembark. This is intense.

  "C'mon Chad, we're here," said Mr. Masters quietly. His voice was hoarse. A firm, gentle hand gripped Chad’s shoulder.

  "I'm coming," he replied as he looked back at faces of those behind him on the bus.

  Mr. Masters turned and ushered his wife down the aisle. Chad stood and waited to take his place in line.

  A disheveled, wild-eyed woman across the aisle glared at him. "Stay away from my daughter, you freak," she hissed, pushing her young child in front of him toward the front of the bus.

  Chad let her pass, then tried to move forward again into the aisle.

  "Sit your ass down," said an older man from behind him. "You don't need any help. This place is for us," he growled.

  Mr. Masters heard the exchange a few places ahead and turned, the skin around his eyes tightened as he glared at the older man. Chad held his eyes for a moment, then shook his head as he sat. Mr. Masters’ face went red and he stood there holding up the line for a moment as he stared down the people behind him, but eventually his wife pulled him forward.

  Chad turned away from the angry passengers and stared out the window at the smoke-shrouded airport. It's not worth it. He's right.

  Enormous military transports lumbered down the flight line and slipped in and around the planes like mice among elephants. There were Jeeps, Humvees, huge trucks, and even tanks everywhere he looked.

  Wow—I've never seen a real tank before and now there’s a dozen of them parked right over there.

  Every soldier in sight wore at least a gas mask and thick rubber gloves—most wore bulky chemical suits over their uniforms. They ushered civilians to the doctors and handed out food or blankets and the ubiquitous face masks so many people wore. Only the ones on the edge of all the activity carried weapons.

  Before long, Chad looked up to find himself the last survivor still on the bus. He watched impassively as the others lined up in front of men and women in biohazard suits. The procession took time as a squad of nurses stopped at each new arrival to listen to their chest with a stethoscopes then check temperature, mouths, and eyes for any signs of infection. The front line nurses called out the readings to colleagues who stood a few steps back recording data on metal clipboards.

  Now and then, they would repeat the exam on someone and the person would be escorted by a pair of suited, armed soldiers to an adjacent hangar. The rest were dismissed to join the queue shuffling toward an gigantic tent directly in front of the hangar.

  Chad heard someone climb back aboard the bus and recognized the wisp of the doctor’s suit as she moved closer down the aisle. Hoping to avoid any more prodding into his health history, he jumped up quickly and moved toward the aisle, hoping she would let him pass.

  "Looks like you're ready to go. Follow me please."

  Damn.

  He grudgingly met her eyes and moved to follow her. Chad tucked his mom's picture into his pocket as he walked toward the front of the bus.

  Dr. Raythie turned at the exit stairs. "I've got to take this bus back out for another run, but you need to get checked in first." She went down the steps and waited for him at the bottom.

  "Good luck, kid,” muttered the driver as he drummed his fingers across the wheel.

  Chad moved off the last step and stood blinking in the failing light. Noise from military generators competed with the rumble and growl of diesel engines and the sound of thousands of v
oices talking at once—it all rolled over him like an ocean wave, threating to pull him under.

  "It's a lot to take in, I know—but I don't have much time, so follow me please," Dr. Raythie said as she grabbed his arm and started forward.

  Chad froze when he spotted armed soldiers standing guard over the personal effects of everyone who’d been on the bus. "What about my stuff?" he asked.

  "All personal items have to go through quarantine, too," the doctor explained in a kind, if tired voice. "Just come with me, Chad. I’ll make sure you get your things."

  He turned to follow her, then stopped again. "Wait. How come I'm not going with everyone else?"

  For a brief second, Dr. Raythie's lips compressed into a tight line and she narrowed her eyes in annoyance. Her face cleared almost immediately and a bright smile spread across her face. He noticed the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  "Well, you're not like everyone else are you?" she said cheerily.

  Chad deliberated. Something wasn’t right. He watched as a trickle of sweat slithered down her temple to her cheekbone, leaving a track on her smooth skin.

  "Why are you sweating?" he asked.

  The doctor blinked and her smile dimmed, then vanished. "Because these damn suits are hot. Now come on," she hissed, grabbing his arm with more strength than before and pulled him forward.

  "Don't make a scene—everyone around here already hates you."

  He hesitated—she had him there. "Why are you doing this? Where are you taking me?" he demanded cautiously.

  "I'm just following orders. They want to see you first."

  Chad tried to free his arm. "I don't understand—who wants to see me? Why?"

  The doctor paused but didn’t let go of his arm as a huge army truck rumbled by in front of them. She looked around and threw her free hand in the air. "It's complicated. Look—just follow me, they'll explain everything.” She pointed back toward the well-lit hangar in stark contrast to the twilight darkness that enveloped the airfield.