Without warning

‘Heather, I’m going to get someone to run you out to the hospital,’ he told her. ‘No, scratch that – they’ll be completely overloaded. Do you have a doctor in town? Someone we can call?’

She shook her head. ‘No, but I’ve been to a clinic near my apartment a couple of times. I got food poisoning my first week here.’

‘Jeez, Seattle’s been good to you, hasn’t it… Okay. Barn, you think you could drive Heather over to this clinic and get her checked out? Don’t take any shit from them – it’s city business.’

‘No problem,’ replied Tench.

‘Okay, you guys go now. Fuck the cops, they know where to find you. I’ll deal with them. Off you go.’ He shooed them away, keeping an eye on the sergeant, who had his back turned to them.

A long line of ambulances was speeding down 4th Avenue South towards them and he could hear a chopper, more than one, approaching from the city. Hopefully it would be a medical flight. The media couldn’t take their helicopters anywhere without written authority from Fort Lewis. The entire state had been declared a no-fly zone, in order to ‘secure’ the city’s airspace and approaches. It was bullshit, of course. There were no more unpiloted, empty aircraft headed for Seattle. They’d all crashed within hours of the Disappearance. But General Blackstone hadn’t got around to removing the restrictions.

Well, for once, Kipper was glad of it. He could really do without having to deal with a lot of jackass reporters this morning.

* * * *

Nearly six hours later, he finally made it through the last checkpoint on 5th Avenue, where a couple of Humvees with ring-mounted machine-guns blocked access to the Municipal Tower, the city’s administrative centre. A kid with the name-tag Meyer read his papers, stamping his feet in the cold while his breath plumed in the frigid air. He didn’t look at all pleased to be out in the open. The sun had disappeared again, and a light drizzle was drifting down from the leaden sky. It stung Kipper’s eyes as he waited for his papers, taking him back to childhood memories of swimming in pools with way too much chlorine.

‘Looks fine, sir,’ said Private Meyer. Or was it Specialist Meyer? Kip never really knew where he was with these military types. ‘Just park as normal and head on through. Major McCutcheon is waiting to see you.’

Kipper was about to walk away when he pulled himself up. ‘Sorry, who’s waiting to see me?’

Young Meyer consulted his clipboard again. ‘Major McCutcheon, sir,’ he repeated.

‘I don’t know any McCutcheon, son, Major or otherwise. What’s it about? Unless he’s come here to explain where your guys got to this morning when they should’ve been guarding my food bank, I’m not interested.’

Meyer looked severely discomforted. ‘Sorry, sir. I don’t know why he came to see you. He’s General Blackstone’s aide, if that helps.’

Kipper blinked away the burning rain that was running into his eyes. ‘Well no, it doesn’t… but… Damn it. McCutcheon, you said?’

‘Yes, sir. Major Ty McCutcheon. He’s waiting for you inside, sir, in the… er… deputy mayor’s office.’

‘Okay. Thanks.’ He stalked off. If nothing else, this McCutcheon might make a convenient punching bag. God knows he needed one after this morning.

Forced to take a parking spot a good long walk from the tower, he didn’t recognise many of the vehicles, and noted that a fair amount of military transport had fetched up here, too. The thin mist of rain started to thicken up, falling heavier and forcing him to hurry. He no more wanted to be out in it than poor Private Meyer. Two more guards, both of them toting rifles, greeted him at the door, eyeballed his papers, and reminded him that he had an appointment with Major McCutcheon. Kipper tried to shake off his anger with the rain and pushed past them into the heated and slightly humid interior of the building.

He could tell immediately that many more folks were in residence than was normal, a good number of them, perhaps most, out-of-towners. Every fourth man or woman was dressed in a military uniform. A couple of very expensive suits were wrapped around some very polished Eastern accents, too, he noticed. And Canadians seemed to pop up at each corner, announcing their presence with a rising inflection and an ‘eh!’ for every occasion. None of the newcomers recognised him, but here and there he caught a despairing look from a city employee. He had no idea how many people knew about the fuck-up at Costco – it certainly hadn’t been on the radio as he’d driven in. Those stations still operating were given over to official announcements spliced in between wall-to-wall music, and none of the announcements made any mention of the trouble this morning.

By the time he reached the deputy mayor’s office, he’d calmed down a little, and decided to ditch the meeting with this McCutcheon guy. He was going to be far too busy with all the blow-back from the food bank disaster and opted instead to attempt an end-zone run to his own office.

‘Yo! Kipper, you made it, man, good to see. Come in, dude. We need to talk.’