Craig Dilouie: The Killing Floor

“The President,” Fielding called to Roberts, pointing at the TV screens.

President Walker had spent most of the crisis underground in the Situation Room. Since the epidemic started, they had seen him only on television. Someone boosted the volume, filling the room with the President’s address to the nation from his desk in the Oval Office.

“—functions of our government continue without interruption.”

Roberts turned away to watch. Travis sighed with relief.

“Federal agencies in Washington are evacuating and will reopen at secure locations within the next few days. To ensure the safety of personnel critical to the continued functioning of our government, I am also ordering the immediate evacuation of the White House.”

The room erupted with gasps and murmuring and people shushing each other.

“Quiet!” someone shouted.

“Excuse me,” Travis said, stepping through the crowd. “I’m feeling sick.”

They moved aside readily, staring at the screens. He did not even need the ruse. They were like sheep.

“—evil acts of terror perpetrated by people who were once our family, friends, neighbors.”

He closed the door behind him.

A human train hustled past, shoving him aside. He caught a glimpse of the Attorney General flanked by stoic Secret Service agents and trailed by pale staffers clutching briefcases and stacks of files against their chests.

Travis fell in with them, glancing over his shoulder at the conference room doors. Fielding and Roberts and the others were still listening to the President’s speech. He did not need to hear it. He had already gotten the message loud and clear: Get out. We’re leaving now . Six thousand people worked for the White House. He had no idea how many were in the building right now, but it was a lot. He would take no chance at being left behind.

A large man wearing a business suit and ear piece appeared at the end of the corridor, waving them forward. “The stairs are clear,” he barked. “Let’s move it.”

The group quickened its pace, suddenly interrupted by people pouring into the corridor from multiple doors. Everyone was getting the same message: Evacuate .

“Go,” one of the agents said, pushing through the mob. “Make way for the Attorney General, people.”

Travis tried to follow in their wake, but was blocked. He was now at the rear of a large crowd filling the corridor and trickling down the stairwell. Behind him, the thirty people from his working group caught up. A large portrait of Andrew Jackson frowned down at them from the wall.

The line ground to a halt. The staffers cracked open laptops and made calls on their cell phones. People sat on the steps and shared what they knew. Rumors rippled down the line.

Helicopters are taking us out. Marine One is in the air.

The President was already gone.

The line moved, and then stopped again. Travis chafed, feeling trapped. He had a bad feeling about the evacuation. He looked at the worried faces around him and wondered if they felt it too. He loosened his tie and tried to control his growing panic.

They finally reached the bottom and exited the building. Exhausted from working day and night to help steer the White House’s lumbering decision-making process, officials and bureaucrats and secretaries blinked at the gray sky, looking for the sun. Ahead, more people streamed through the trees under the sentinel gaze of Marine guards with automatic weapons. A sniper on the roof fired his rifle with a sudden bang , making the crowd flinch in unison like startled deer. Travis hurried after them, coughing on hot, smoky air that smelled like burning chemicals. For days, he had watched the apocalypse on TV, and now here he was hurrying right into it. It was strange, but he thought he’d been in the safest building on the planet.

Emerging from the trees, Travis was greeted by the cathartic view of a massive Chinook helicopter standing on the broad South Lawn, the metallic chop of its rotors competing with the crackle of gunfire. The door was folding closed. Travis scanned the black haze drifting across the sky. Past the familiar sight of the Washington Monument, he saw the black dots of one helicopter receding, another approaching.

The helicopter on the ground lunged into the humid air, blasting the mob below with a strong hot wind that carried an oily smell. A briefcase spilled open and shed hundreds of sheets of paper that fluttered into the air. This is not an evacuation , Travis thought, feeling a rush of panic. This is a meltdown.

The Secret Service waved the crowd back, their mouths working, as the next helicopter landed hard and fast. Travis pressed ahead, ducking at the booming shots of the sniper rifles. He was so close now. If not this ride, he would make the next. Instead of assuring him, this idea inspired more panic. The people around him continued to shout into the roar of the blades, scream at the crack of Uzis, point at the Infected being shot down as they climbed the makeshift fence surrounding the landing zone.

“Come on!” he shouted into the noise.

People were moving again, climbing aboard the helicopter. Then the Secret Service closed ranks, blocking the way. The helicopter was full, the agents shouted. Wait for the next one.

So close , Travis thought. He looked at the sky past the Washington Monument and saw one helicopter disappearing, but none coming.

Someone screwed up. There’s not enough transportation to get everyone out .

They’re going to leave us behind to die .

Driven by his terror, he pushed forward until he stood face to face with one of the Secret Service agents. The crowd heaved and Travis found himself looking into the barrel of a large handgun, one short squeeze from oblivion. He dug his heels and pushed back at the bodies pressing against him, staring wild-eyed at the big gun in the agent’s hand.

“Please don’t shoot me,” Travis said.

“Back,” the agent told him.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You have to get me on this helicopter.”

The large man’s expression remained inscrutable behind mirrored sunglasses.

“I’m a science adviser,” Travis added. “The President needs me, do you understand? If you want this thing to end, the President is going to need me at his side. I’m a scientist .”

The agent said nothing.

“You really think bullets are going to stop this?” Travis said in disgust, giving up.

The agent frowned and Travis winced, thinking he was going to be shot. Instead, the man turned and boarded the helicopter, grabbed the arm of a young woman sitting near the door, and pulled her from her seat. She burst into tears, obeying meekly until she stood in the opening looking dazedly at the crowd, mascara running down her face, her hair frayed around braids coiled into a bun. The roiling mob glared back at her in a state of fierce panic. The agent said something; she screamed and clawed at his face until he shoved her off. People surged around, trying to help. She continued to wail. The sound of it made Travis want to throw up.

Then he realized what was happening.

“Hey, wait,” he said.

The agent slid his hand under Travis’s armpit and squeezed, propelling him toward the open door of the helicopter.

“You can’t do this,” Travis pleaded. “You have to let that woman on too!”

The agent said close to his ear, “Don’t try my patience.”

If you want to live, live , he seemed to say. If you want to die, die. Don’t play games with me. I have to stay here. I’m a dead man doing his duty.

His face burning with rage and shame, Travis climbed into the helicopter and took the woman’s seat, avoiding the eyes of his fellow passengers. He sensed someone staring at him. He glanced up and locked eyes with John Fielding.