Governor Del Smith stared at the blinking conference call light on her phone. She didn’t want to answer it. Warm, comforting golden light spilled all around her from an overhead fixture as she sat at her large, stable mahogany desk. Everything on that desk was exactly as she liked it: everything in its place, which was absolutely everywhere. She was completely disorganized, and that was fine by her. The evergreen flag of the proud state of Washington stood outside her door, fastened to a brass pole bolted firmly into the floor. She was surrounded by security (literally and figuratively), ease and durability.
And that blinking light was going to fuck it all up.
She briefly contemplated ignoring it, but duty called… or at least flashed with irritatingly orange insistence.
She crossed her legs, straightened her spine and her sensible black pencil skirt (even though no one was going to see her) and picked up the phone.
“You’ve reached the office of Governor Del Smith,” she said in her best monotone voice. “Your call is very important to us so if you would please-“
“Del, get serious,” said the weary, care worn voice of Donald Hopkins, the Governor of Oregon.
“I am serious,” she snapped.
“Serious about something besides ignoring my call. Besides it’s not just me. I have the director of the CDC on the line with me.”
If Christmas was not cancelled this year due to the extinction of the human race on the North American continent, Del made a mental note to scratch Donald off her Christmas card list. He could have at least warned her. Donald had emailed her earlier that day about a conference call, but while the email had made it clear that he expected the end of the world, what it did not make clear was what the actual conference call was about. She had no idea she was going to be talking to the director of the CDC.
“Good afternoon, Governor Smith,” said Rob Carter. His voice was deep, stern and clipped; it dripped with stress. “I’m sorry if I took you by surprise, but we have a hell of a situation here.”
“No apology necessary, Mr. Director, what can I help you with?” she said.
“Call me Rob,” he said shortly. “I’m sure you’ve heard about this… issue in Oregon and California?”
She had. Strange and garbled reports, most of them sounding unreal and hysterical, had been pouring in from Southern California since the day before. None of it seemed real, and no one could seem to make any sense of what was happening.
“Yes, I’ve heard. So far we have no reports of any such thing here in Washington-“
“Yes, and we’re looking to keep it that way,” Rob interrupted her. “We want to blow the bridges, but we need your permission.”
Del paused, not quite comprehending. “What bridges?”
“The Interstate Bridge, and probably the Astoria-Megler as well. We’ve already shut down the Wahkiakum Ferry. We need to secure Washington as fast as we can as a… well, a ‘clean zone’ if you will. We need to make as large of a safe zone as we can and the Columbia provides a perfect natural barrier. All we need to do is get rid of any crossings and we should be able to keep this from getting into Washington. Donald has already declared martial law in Oregon and we have approval from their side. But as both bridges were a joint effort between the states… ”
Del’s mouth was hanging open wide enough to allow a small battalion of tanks straight through to the back of her head. This could not be serious.