The Great Rumbling #3
“Now I’ll take a few questions,” the president announces.
Hands shoot up.
Ludlow points. “Yes—you first.”
A young woman from CNWN stands. Her voice is confident and loud enough to be heard from every corner of the room. “Mr. President, is there truth to the reports that the East Coast could face attacks within the week?”
“We have no confirmation that such an attack is imminent,” Ludlow replies. “We ask citizens to remain vigilant but not to give in to fear or panic. We are prepared.”
Another hand rises near the back of the room. A man from The Standard Times half stands before asking his question, adjusting the microphone clipped to the front of his jacket.
“Sir, can you confirm reports that sections of the reinforced border zones have been breached?”
A ripple moves through the press—murmurs, the faint tapping of keys as several reporters begin typing.
Ludlow exhales slowly before answering, his expression carefully neutral.
“There are ongoing conflicts along several border regions,” he says.
“Our borders have been strengthened considerably over the past few years, and our military is actively responding to any threat or situation that arises.” He pauses just long enough to let the words settle.
“At this time, there is nothing our forces cannot manage.”
Carson sweeps the room again.
Still clear.
No unusual movement.
“Yes,” Ludlow says, pointing at a reporter from the WC Associated Press.
The man rises. “Mr. President, regarding the epidemic—do we have any indication of a cure yet, or anything that can slow the virus once someone is infected?”
Ludlow folds his hands on the podium. “Nothing official at this time. However, our medical teams are tracking promising data. We’ve identified individuals who appear to have natural immunity, and studying those cases may help us understand how to slow the progression or even develop a viable treatment.
For now, the testing is still in the early stages. ”
He pauses only a heartbeat before addressing the matter further. “What I can say is that our experts are working around the clock on this. Every resource we have is being directed toward containment, treatment options, and long-term solutions.”
President Ludlow clears his throat and gestures to a man across the room. “Yes, you.”
The reporter rises, someone Carson recognizes from repeated briefings—a national desk reporter known for dry humor and borderline snark.
“Mr. President, there’s a growing narrative that all of this looks… well, biblical. That we’re headed toward The End of Days. Should Americans be concerned? Are we entering… apocalyptic territory?”
A few uneasy chuckles ripple through the room.
President Ludlow gives a small, knowing smile—the kind a steady leader uses to lower the temperature without trivializing the concern.
“Well,” he replies, “I think we’ve all seen a few tabloid headlines lately that could give anyone heartburn.”
More light laughter.
Carson notes that the shoulders in the room drop a fraction.
Ludlow continues, voice warm but firm. “Look, I understand why people are anxious, and to those of faith, I can say this. We’ve had catastrophic earthquakes before, storms that broke records, serious disruptions to our food supply—and of course, viruses in the past that have cut down the world's population. It’s a lot.
And when a lot happens all at once, it’s human nature to look for bigger meaning or bigger explanations than what science can provide, especially as we haven’t had time for our scientists and experts to study these phenomena and give us answers just yet.
” He pauses, choosing his next words with careful deliberation.
“But here’s what I want the American people to remember: we have incredibly smart men and women working around the clock to do just that. ”
There’s a heavy pause after this statement.
The reporter slowly takes his seat. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
More hands rise to get the president’s attention.
Ludlow’s gaze roams the room, and his fingers on his right hand tighten around the edge of the podium. “You there,” he says, pointing at a male raising his hand a few rows back.
The man stands—a long-trusted White House correspondent, Miguel Hartman. Carson has seen him in and out of the West Wing for two years. No history of instability. Nothing concerning in his file. “Sir,” he says, “how will the administration—”
Carson hears movement. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The reporter's questions become white noise as he searches for the source. He scans to the right side of the room, but finding nothing, checks the left—just in time to see the real threat.
Agent Lewis.
One of their own.
Expression set with grim determination. Gun already drawn and lifted toward the president.
Carson’s voice tears out of him.
“Gun! Gun! Get down!”
“Move!” Another voice shouts.
Carson lunges forward.
Lewis moves faster. One more step, and he presses the muzzle to the side of President Ludlow's head.
The shot cracks through the room.
One lone high-pitched scream rises above the rest as Carson is hit with warm spray across his face.
Blood.
Ludlow collapses before Carson can reach him.
Lewis swings the gun to the right.
Carson fires before he gets another round off. Two shots to the chest. One final one to the head—clean, controlled, instinctive.
Lewis drops.
Metal chairs scrape across the floor. Agents shout over one another. Members of the press scatter in every direction, some diving for cover, others rushing for the exits.
“Eagle is down. Repeat. Eagle is down.”
The words crackle through Carson's comms.
Nearby, a reporter's voice trembles.
“Oh, my God. The president. Yes, it was the president. He’s been shot. Yes. Yes, I believe so. He’s…he’s not getting up, and there’s…oh my God…there’s so much blood.”
Movement in Carson’s periphery. Light focuses on the horrific scene before him.
Another voice cuts in, steadier, somehow managing professionalism despite the horror.
“This is Tabitha Myers coming to you from a bunker in the White House. We believe the president of the United States has just been assassinated.”
The room blurs around Carson. He drops to his knees beside the president and presses a hand to Ludlow’s shoulder, not to save him—just to touch him. There’s no use checking for a pulse or breath. The wound is catastrophic.
For a moment, Carson can only stare.
Then he bows his head and whispers, “God help us.”
Deep down in his bones, he believes that without Ludlow’s leadership, this nation may not survive what’s coming.
Ellesmere Island Containment & Immunity Research Facility
Sublevel 7 – Restricted Medical Ward
The ward is quiet except for the usual sounds of the soft beeping of vital monitors, the slow pulse of the ventilation system, and the muffled hum of generators somewhere deep in the infrastructure.
Sublevel 7 always feels colder than the others.
Something about the way the ducts run down here.
The air never fully warms, even under the LED lights.
Pauline checks the sedation rate on Patient 12. Young woman. Mid-twenties. Norwegian. The intake file said she was found wandering outside a burned-out shelter. Everyone else inside had been dead for days.
One of the few people immune to the new virus sweeping through populations and wiping out entire cities in days.
Pauline adjusts her blanket—a small, habitual, useless act—and notes the swelling in Patient 12's upper arm from the latest blood draw. Worrying. But not a primary concern in the grand scheme of things. Pauline makes a mental note to watch it as the day progresses.
For now, she needs to isolate a new sample once the centrifuge finishes.
The door opens with the hydraulic sigh she’s come to recognize.
Dr. Nathan Calder steps in and tucks the badge he used to grant himself access to the room into his white lab coat. He nods to her in greeting. No smile, but not unfriendly. He’s quiet, kind, and doesn’t treat sedated patients like objects. That alone sets him apart down here.
“Morning,” Pauline says, out of habit more than anything. The concept of morning means nothing in a facility buried this far underground.
He nods once and pulls on gloves.