NEARLY TWO WEEKS INTO THIS NIGHTMARE, WORLDWIDE COMMUNICATIONS were still a mess. Scott Johnson had been beating on his comms guru Peter Clostner like a recalcitrant mule, but to little effect. Either electronics were working, or they weren’t, and for the time being, they weren’t. Not surprisingly, ham radio operators were the heroes of the day, but nothing they transmitted was confirmed, or even confirmable at this point.

Apparently, military units still existed in America, but if true, they were working autonomously, which made them military dictators. Johnson saw little good could coming from that.

One positive event floating in the sea of negatives was the fact that Pete Clostner had successfully established often-unreliable connections with Mount Weather. The National Command Authority—POTUS, VPOTUS and SECDEF—had, in fact, never arrived, and were presumed dead. Given the devastation reported in that part of the country, Johnson didn’t doubt the report.

President Glendale, God bless him, did his best to cobble together some kind of federal response, but the surviving cabinet consisted of the secretaries of Labor, Interior, Health and Human Services, Veterans Affairs and Homeland Security. The director of the Environmental Protection Agency had also made it to safety, as had a deputy assistant secretary of the Treasury. Given former President Blanton’s inability to attract great talent, Penn Glendale had to make do with a bench that no one would call deep.

Every communication they’d established between the two bunkers impressed Johnson as a form of intellectual masturbation. They made plans and tried to coordinate responses that simply could not yet be stitched together. Frustrations ran hot.

Meanwhile, the House and Senate debated funding packages and their own coordinated responses—usually running opposed to those of the president. Johnson found it amusing as hell that these clowns still thought that they were in charge.

Presently Johnson was waiting for Angela Fortnight to join him in his public office. She was running late, as he expected, because she’d knotted her panties over the notion that she was Speaker of the House and Johnson should come to her, instead of the other way around. Thing was, his office had walls, while hers did not. This was a meeting that needed walls.

The Speaker finally arrived, sixteen minutes late. She didn’t bother to knock, but rather breezed through his closed door and left it open as she helped herself to the metal guest chair in front of his desk.

Johnson knew not to take the bait. These effete asshats were beginning to crumble under the pressure. He knew that trouble was coming, but he didn’t want it to be over this.

“Good afternoon, Madam Speaker,” he said. He stood, walked to his door and closed it.

“Not yet, it’s not,” she said.

“Oh, then it’s not going to get better,” he said as he walked back around to his chair.

“Make this fast, Johnson,” she said. “I have work to do.”