Warzone 2500 Ch. 3

September 8th, 2010
James Martin High School
Third Period, B-day

As I walked in to my physics class with Sean, I looked for Mr. Atman, our teacher. He is, well, a little big, and pretty hard to miss, so I saw right away that he was not there. Instead, I saw Mrs. Ku, one of the school substitutes. A small woman, shorter than me, and most other students, she was Korean and had a very heavy accent. Most of the time, I could just barely understand her.

As the bell rang, Mrs. Ku yelled, "Okey eveeone, gat to youre seets!" We went to our seats, anticipating a free day. "Mr. Atman is no her todey, so we gona watch Presedent on TV." I had forgotten that today was the day that Obama gave his indoctrination speech to all kids in grades K-12. How does he expect the teachers to use their valuable time watching him instead of teaching anyway? I pondered that for a minute, but then Mrs. Ku interrupted my thoughts. "You cen watch heem or no, just no breake anething."

As she turned the TV on and started displaying the epic inadequacy with technology that most subs share, I turned and started watching the ping-pong game that had started in the back of the classroom.
Five minutes later, a sudden hush fell over the front part of the classroom, and I looked to see what happened. At first, I saw nothing, but then I saw Jessica, a girl with hair most of the way down to her knees, staring at the TV. I looked and was confronted not with the image of Obama, but a frail looking man who seemed to be giggling uncontrollably.

"He he he he he… I have done it! By this time tomorrow, all the nukes in the NASDA system will have launched, and the ground lasers and interceptor missiles will be powerless to stop the complete and utter destruction of humanity! He he he he he…"

We stared at the screen in shock as the message faded into darkness, then repeated.

Someone in another room screamed, Apparently, we are not the only ones with a TV, I thought.

Then, the voice of the principal, Mrs. Reeves, sounded on the intercom and, with a shaking voice, announced, "Attention Martin High School! Due to threats on national security, school is being dismissed immediately. We will play a copy of the threat made over the intercom, once. Goodbye."

We stood in silence as the tape was played once more, then everyone began stampeding out of school. A few people were already crying. I ran to my truck, and as I approached it, made sure nobody had damaged it when they were rushing to get out. It was a grey 1999 Ford Ranger, and even though it was old, I still liked it for two reasons. One, it was mine and I was used to driving it. Two, it was already paid for. I got in, inserted the key into the ignition, pulled through the now-empty parking space in front of me, and carefully maneuvered my way out of the parking lot. There was less traffic than normal, but to compensate, everyone was driving extra crazily today.

After I got through the mess of frantic teens that was the parking lot, I went home and spent a quiet evening with my parents.


September 9th, 2010

I got up earlier than my parents the next day, which was something I had not done since I was in third grade, but, seeing as this might be the last day of my existence, I figured it couldn't hurt.

I turned on the TV and stared at the news blankly for a few minutes, only barely understanding what it was saying about crazy people with guns. Thinking that this might be important, I turned my attention to it. Apparently, some people had broken into gun shops and started shooting everyone in sight. The psychiatrist on the news said that they thought they were helping people by giving them a quick death. It was just changing topics to something they called the Project when the doorbell rang.

Thinking of the crazy people, I went to the front room and peeked through the blinds. There appeared to be a military convoy going by on the street, and on the court where my house was located, there was a jeep. I saw a military officer at every door on the court. Since none of them were shooting people, I decided that it was probably safe to open the door.

As I opened the door, I was greeted with the sight of a young army recruit who looked slightly harassed. "Do any other people live here?" he inquired.

"Ya, I mean, yes, sir. My mom and my dad. I think they are still asleep," I replied. "Why?"

"We are evacuating everyone to a underground base where they will be safe."

I looked at the convoy. It didn't look like it was moving very fast, and there didn't seem like there was enough room for more than a few dozen people, so that ruled out it going anywhere more than a few miles away, and there were not any caves for at least 20 miles in any direction that I knew of. So I asked skeptically, "Where is this base? If it is more than two miles away then this convoy will need one year, not one day, to get to it." Then, I realized why he looked so harassed.

To my surprise, he smiled and said, "Actually, you go there every day. It's under Martin High School. Just go to the parking lot and you will see the entrance. What kind of cars do you have?"

I flashed back to the day I saw a few military people standing in the hall right outside the 'Mechanical' door, and my brief thoughts that day that there was a secret military base under Martin, and then thought that I should take my own ridiculous suggestions seriously. Then I realized that I had been staring blankly at the guy for 10 seconds, and pulled my ADD mind back to the present.

"We have two Saturn Vue's and a Ford Ranger." As I said this he pulled out an iPhone and started typing on it.

"We already have all models of Vue's… what year is the Ford Ranger?"

"1999."

He pushed a few more buttons on his iPhone, and then said, "We don't have any of those. You can bring that car, but no others. You can bring cell phones, computers and a few personal belongings, but no clothes unless it has a ridiculous amount of sentimental value. Be at Martin in one hour." And he moved on to the next house.


Fifty-eight hectic minuets later, about 7:45 A.M.
En route to Martin High School


I had made the drive many times before, but never like this. Everywhere I looked, people were loading their cars with their prized possessions and computers and, in some cases two families were sharing the same car. It normally took me five to ten minutes to drive to Martin, now it took twenty. Everywhere, people were pulling out of driveways and joining the procession. Even so, I could not understand why it was taking so long, until we reached Pleasant Ridge, the road the school was located on. Traffic was at a standstill in every direction, all of it converging on Martin. However, all of the roads leading away were completely empty.

Then I looked at the parking section. The lot we were approaching was the senior lot, with the reserved spaces painted every year by the person that used the space. Most of it looked normal, but toward the back of the lot, where the band used to practice marching, there was a section that looked like it had caved in. As we finally got into the lot and inched closer to this spot, I saw that it was actually a ramp, sloping 25i0; downward into a rough tunnel for about 10 feet, then the tunnel became smooth and obviously manufactured.

I watched as another young military guy walked up to the car three cars ahead of me and gave him instructions. Then the next car… then the next car. If the human race really only had less than a day left on this earth, they sure didn't seem to know it. I thought I had discovered another definition for slow. Then I thought, Well, that is why some consider military intelligence to be an oxymoron. But the really good one is government organization! As he finally got done with the person in front of me, I rolled down the window, still wondering what took so long, but figuring that I was about to find out.
Just as the guy was about to give me directions, another person ran up to the truck, and they both stepped away and started talking about something. There was too much ambient noise for me to hear what they were saying, so while I waited, I looked at the new one. I noticed that he had several badges that the first one did not, so I figured that he was some sort of a commanding officer. Then, the noise died away for a few seconds and I heard the first guy say, "But we don't have any drivers, and we can't ask him to," The commanding officer cut him off and asked, "What was the name of the guy Kingsley wanted to see? Because the kid matches…" The person behind me honked and the rest of the conversation was lost in a honking war that sounded like it would last a while.

The first guy went to the next car and the commanding officer looking guy came up to my window. "Is one of you Michael?" he asked. My dad and I said, "Yes," simultaneously. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and consulted it, and then asked me "Are you the one that goes by Casey?"

I hesitantly nodded, thinking about what they were talking about a minute ago.

"Okay, you go ahead and take your truck down the lane on the far right, the one with no traffic in it, and tell them that Kingsley wants to talk to you, they will let you through." Then, addressing my parents, he said, "Ya'll go into Martin and follow the crowd."
"When will we see him again?" my dad asked.

"Sometime before the nukes are supposed to hit."

"Can we have a minute?" my mom inquired.

"Sure, just make sure he is heading down there in five minutes."


Five very emotional minutes later


I drove up to the lane on the right, and was immediately stopped by a guard. "No traffic is allowed through here," he said grumpily. "You're just going to have to wait in line with everyone else. You stupid teenagers think that just because you don't care about the rules that they don't apply to you, but they apply just as much as they do to everyone else!!" he shouted.

"Kingsley wants to talk to me."

"Oh…well, go on then, what are you staring at, go!" He seemed slightly embarrassed about his previous outburst of aggravation. So I started down the long tunnel, feeling alone. Also, I had a very distinct sense that my life was not in my own hands anymore.