Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

Steve scampered beside her, held on to her hip. "What…what is it?"

Betty squinted up at the sky. Yes…she could make it out now. An airplane. Someone was going to be in big trouble for disturbing Elvis… She sucked in a breath as the plane released a silvery egg. No, not an egg.

People walked quickly from the Meditation Garden, started running.

"Mama?"

"Hush, now." Betty picked Steve up in her arms, felt him warm against her, hair smelling sweet with his boy sweat. "It's all right. Everything's fine."

Steve craned his head, trying to get a better look at the plane, but Betty kept him turned away, gently bouncing him like she did when he was a baby. Lord, that boy could eat.

He put his arms around her neck. "What is it?"

"Nothing." She ran her hand through his hair, the bomb hurtling right toward them, so close now she could practically read the serial number on the devilish thing. "I just love you, child, that's all."

Rakkim accelerated onto the sidewalk; the reinforced front end of the van shoved aside a wrecked car, sent it slewing back into the street.

"You could slow down, wind your way through the cars," said Moseby. "You pop a gasket, or burn out the transmission, game over."

Rakkim drove on, tires crunching over broken glass where the storefronts had blown out from the shock wave of the suitcase nuke. Thirty years later and the glass still glittered like diamonds in the morning sun. The van did what it had been built for-the seals kept the radiation level inside low enough that they didn't need to wear the helmets of their rad-suits, and the air scrubbers kept things breathable. Outside…nothing could fix outside.

"I already checked that area, by the way," said Moseby. "I checked the whole ellipse."

Rakkim downshifted, the puncture-proof tires rolling over a flattened sedan. Other scavengers had come this way, Pennsylvania Avenue a regular zombie thoroughfare. It had been late afternoon when they left the Harrison house-they had driven to the outskirts of D.C., checked the rad-detector until they found a relatively cool spot among a grove of stunted trees and parked, waited for daylight. Moseby had slept, his breathing erratic, but Rakkim stayed awake, making sure they hadn't been followed. The city had been completely dark except for a dim glow near the Capitol building.

"I hope you're right," said Moseby. "Doesn't seem much to go on, though."

"You saw the photos of Eldon the first in Vietnam. He's their bright and shining star," said Rakkim. "Like you said, the whole city is a heartbreaker, but for that family, for Eldon in particular, it's the Wall that's going to make him ache." The van hit a pothole, but he maintained control. "I've seen pictures of the Vietnam Memorial…that long expanse of black granite would wring tears from a stone." He slowed…stopped, the engine rumbling, the air compressor banging away on the roof.

Moseby didn't ask why Rakkim had stopped. He had done the same thing on his first trip into D.C.

Rakkim stared out the leaded windshield. Most of the major buildings in the city looked untouched, but the suitcase nuke must have gone off near Pennsylvania Avenue because the White House wasn't white anymore. Paint scorched. Windows melted. The iron picket fence surrounding the mansion twisted from the heat of the blast. Rakkim finally put the van in gear, drove on. He had no idea how long they had been there.

Moseby coughed into his fist, "Two more blocks…make a right onto Ninth and then another right onto Constitution."

"How are you feeling?"

"I've been worse," said Moseby.

Rakkim could see the Washington Monument tilted but still standing, which Sarah would probably find deeply symbolic. Give her the chance she'd put the image on the new money once the country was reunited.

"Watch out." Moseby pointed. "Zombies dug a tank trap just past that bench. See it?"

Rakkim guided the van over the curb and onto the grass, circling around the tank trap. Somebody had gone to a lot of work, digging a trench across the street then covering it up with painted cardboard. Any vehicle speeding down the road would bust an axle for sure. He drove back onto the street. "I didn't know zombies scavenged each other."

"They don't," said Moseby. "The tank traps are more to stake a claim, warn others off." He blotted his face with a forearm. "Same thing happens in New Orleans. You dive the French Quarter, you spend more time watching out for hook lines than moray eels."

Rakkim glanced at the sniper rifle on the floor between them. "I saw lights on the other side of the Capitol building last night."

"They were working that site when I was here too. They saw me, but kept their distance. Most zombies don't go looking for trouble. It's dangerous enough just being here." Moseby rested his hand on the butt of his flechette pistol. "They don't usually work nights, though. Too easy to trip and cut your suit on a piece of rebar. If they're going twenty-four/seven…they might have found something good." He checked the rear screen. "Could be bad luck for us. If they found something valuable, they'll be nervous about company." He looked down the side streets. "This van isn't going to help things. Mrs. Harrison recognized it. Zombies might too."

"They think we're Corbett and his boys, they might keep their distance," said Rakkim.

"They think we're Corbett and his boys, they might feel they have to take us out before we steal whatever they've found."

Rakkim accelerated.

Moseby hung on as they bounced along, Rakkim changing lanes, driving up on the sidewalk, anything to avoid a pattern and make them an easy target. They passed the Jefferson Memorial…the Lincoln Memorial, empty now, Lincoln moved in pieces to a place of honor in Atlanta. Moseby steeled himself as they drove up the National Mall and approached the Wall. He had told Rakkim that he had gone over the site, but in truth his exploration had been cursory. It was just too grim-that expanse of heroes, their names etched in black granite with no one to read them, none but the dead.

Rakkim drove on to what was left of the lawn, the armored van sinking slightly. He pressed the accelerator, the four-by-four digging in, as he continued down a winding slope and finally parked. The van was hidden now as much as possible. He turned off the engine, looked at Moseby and slipped on the hood of his rad-suit, put on his gloves while Moseby did the same. Rakkim slipped the small, radiation-proof container for the cross into a side pocket of his suit, then the two of them eased into the back of the van. It was a tight fit, but they managed to squeeze into the decontamination area, then sealed the inner door, opened the outer. Rakkim was first out, stepped onto the ground as though he were landing on the moon. The sound of his own breathing unnerved him.

"Relax," said Moseby. "Most of the suits the zombies use allow in five or six times the rads. Just breathe slowly. You don't want to burn through your air filters too fast."

Rakkim walked past him, drawn to the wall that gleamed in the sun. He stood there staring, the names superimposed on his own reflection, seemingly part of him now. Moseby stared too. All those names…Rakkim never knew any of them, all of them dead seventy or eighty years, but they were warriors, just like he was. It was telling, somehow, that the zombies, who had no compunction about hammering off pieces of the Capitol or the Supreme Court or the White House itself-not one of them had ever tried to sell a chunk of the Wall. There would have been buyers too, there were always buyers, but no zombie would do the dirty work.

"We should go, Rikki," said Moseby, his voice muffled.

"I know," said Rakkim, not moving. A few minutes later he placed a hand on the cool granite, said a silent prayer for the men who died in service to their country.