Bobby Akart - Desolation

However, in Erin’s mind, dealing with an existential crisis like the destruction of the planet’s atmosphere from the consequences of nuclear war required straight talk. Nevertheless, she deduced as she made the long walk through the corridors of Mount Weather buried deep in the mountains of Northern Virginia, her days as part of the Helton Cabinet were coming to an end.

Erin rolled her eyes as she imagined the upcoming conversation. To ease the mental anguish of an employee’s being fired, human resources directors created many alternatives to the dreaded words— you’re fired .

Personnel realignment. Rationalizing the workforce. Career change opportunity. Workforce imbalance correction. Adjustments in internal efficiencies.

“Mumbo jumbo,” Erin muttered aloud, drawing a look from one of her escorts. She noticed the stern look on the Secret Service agent’s face, but she didn’t return the glance. Instead, she managed a smirk. Okay, fine. Gobbledygook . Better now?

Because Erin wasn’t a politician, she didn’t give a rat’s ass about a future in politics, especially in light of the fact that ninety percent of the country would be dead within a year. Therefore, she was determined to go out in a blaze of glory. Her only goal was to negotiate a departure package, more human resources gibberish for can you at least give me a ride home?

When the escorts stopped at the double-doored entrance to the presidential sleeping quarters, reality set in for Erin. She was about to be fired and turned out into the cold, literally. Three words came to mind.

Dead man walking .

“The president will see you now, ma’am,” said the Secret Service agent, snapping Erin out of her thoughts filled with dread.

“Um, thank you.”

She entered the president’s quarters, which consisted of an outer office staffed with two armed guards and a desk for the White House secretary, who was not yet on duty. She stood in the entry alone, glancing around at the spartan furnishings. There were several doors leading out of the entry foyer, presumably offices or bedrooms. The space was not intended to be luxurious like the Oval Office in the White House, but it was elevated above the barracks-style quarters afforded others who were living within the protection of Mount Weather.

Another set of double doors was suddenly flung open, and a casually dressed Harrison Chandler appeared in the entry foyer with a smug look on his face. He and Erin had butted heads many times, which didn’t help matters. Chandler had the president’s ear virtually twenty-four seven. It was the functional equivalent to talking trash to a wife about her husband. The husband had more time to counter your arguments, so it was always a losing proposition.

“Come in, Erin, and take a seat,” said President Helton, pointing toward a chair in front of his desk. The Resolute Desk, the nineteenth-century partner’s desk used by the president in the Oval Office, was one of the few historic pieces of furniture that had been removed from the White House. During the bug-out process, it had made its way to the underground bunker.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” greeted Erin somewhat cheerily. She intended to kill him with kindness before body-slamming him for his feckless policies. “I imagine you’re excited for our move above ground to Carlisle.” Our being the operative word, Mr. President. Did you catch that?

He looked up from the President’s Daily Brief, the daily summary generated by the national security team and supplemented by Homeland Security during the crisis. He removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair. His face was expressionless.

President Helton set a dour tone for the meeting. “Erin, the attacks on America and the nuclear winter conditions have changed the dynamic of this administration. Each and every member of my cabinet was hired with a particular role in mind. When I chose you for the Secretary of Agriculture slot, I followed a skill-mix approach that transcended traditional boundaries, specialisms, and levels of engagement.”

Erin bit her tongue because she needed to see how this meeting played out. Her thoughts, however, weren’t constrained. Mumbo jumbo, naturally. You gave me the job as political payback and to endear yourself to Floridians with their thirty electoral college votes, the nation’s third largest .

The president continued. “As we transition in the direction of recovery rather than a defensive posture, I will need people around me who are willing to carry out my vision for the future of this great nation.”

Erin chuckled somewhat disrespectfully. Her attitude drew a scornful look from Chief of Staff Chandler.

“Yes-men,” she interrupted.

“Excuse me?” asked the president.

“You need more yes-men, as if the other fourteen out of fifteen members aren’t enough.”

“Secretary Bergmann, you’re out of line!” shouted Chandler.

She gave him a death stare. “Am I? It’s blatantly obvious that my opinions are disregarded because the president doesn’t want to hear an opposite point of view.”

“I do value your opinions, Erin,” countered the president unsuccessfully as he took control of the meeting. Erin wasn’t buying it.

Over the weeks since the attacks, Chief of Staff Chandler had wielded more control and power in the Helton administration. The president’s stress and anxiety created a power vacuum that Chandler was more than willing to fill. However, with their impending move above ground, as the president liked to call it, Chandler’s role was also being diminished. The HR people might call that being managed down .

“Well, Mr. President, respectfully, I understand that you may choose not to follow my suggestions or advice. There can only be one decider, to borrow a term from former president Bush. However, I don’t believe it’s in your best interests to discard someone who can provide you a different approach.”

The president took a deep breath, glanced at Chandler, and exhaled. Erin got the sense he wanted to use the words you’re fired . However, his chief of staff, who micromanaged the administration’s personnel decisions, was always concerned about optics and media perception. As a result, Chandler was careful not to create a situation in which the president was accused of being one of the many labels ending in -ist or -ism.

“For example?” the president asked.

“Let’s take Florida, my home state. Sir, your plan to exercise your authority under the martial law declaration to seize property and convert it into America’s new breadbasket is a fool’s errand. The sandy soil of the Keys won’t support agricultural growth. And even if it did, there’s not enough land mass to feed the residents of Florida, much less the nation. Plus, with NOAA’s hurricane advisory, you should note that anything grown there could be washed away prior to the harvesting season by storm surge.”

The president furrowed his brow and studied Erin. She didn’t break eye contact with him as he spoke.

“My interest in Florida involves more than growing food for America. We have a situation, as you know, that borders on treason. I cannot allow state and local governments to shut themselves off from the rest of the nation at a time when we need to come together to help one another.”

“You’re referring to the actions of the Monroe County officials, I presume.”

“Of course. The Florida Keys. The Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The barrier islands along the Eastern Seaboard. Hell, the whole state of Texas thinks they can restrict the flow of American citizens and ignore the rule of law. The first order of business is to tamp down this treasonous activity so I can focus on helping people stay alive.”