Capture Read online

  The view on the screen changed to show a huge black cloud of smoke blocking almost the entire west wing of the White House. The cloud extended across the lawn and out into the street, where fire trucks and ambulances were parked and emergency workers led sobbing, soot-covered people away from the area. Every few seconds, the wind shifted the cloud enough to reveal glimpses of the White House lawn, which looked like a giant meteor had crashed into it.

  The anchorwoman continued. “The explosion occurred just minutes after the start of today's scheduled press conference in the Rose Garden which, as you can see from the live footage, is now covered in smoke and flames. We're still not sure exactly what caused the explosion. We have heard from witnesses at the scene that it did not appear to be an airplane or other type of aerial attack, but we have received no official report yet to confirm or deny this. We're taking you live now to Jennifer Armstrang, a witness who saw the explosion. Jennifer, are you there?”

  “Yes, I'm here!” the witness gasped. There was a loud crackle, probably from interference in the satellite signal to her cell phone.

  “Can you tell us what you saw?”

  “I was down the street a couple of blocks from the White House, and at first there was just the sound of the protesters outside yelling in the street. And then out of nowhere there was this loud boom that shook the whole street, and people screaming everywhere, and thick smoke started pouring in all directions.”

  “Jennifer, did you see any kind of airplane or helicopter in the area before the explosion?” the anchorwoman asked.

  “No! There was nothing in the sky, no sounds of jet engines or anything like that. Just the sound of the protesters yelling outside the White House fence.”

  There was a pause before the anchorwoman replied. “Okay, thank you, Jennifer. Please stay on the line if you can and we'll check back with you in a minute. Viewers, we have just received some video from a surveillance camera that had a view of the explosion. We're going to play it for you now. If you have small children watching with you, please be advised that the following could be disturbing to them.”

  Apparently Principal Thomas and Mr. Sherman both felt our class was old enough to handle it, because neither of them made a move towards the TV as if to turn it off or change the channel.

  The live view was shifted to the left side of the TV screen so a new, smoke-free view could be displayed on the right. The new video footage showed the White House in the distance and how before the blast the street in front of it had been filled with a huge crowd that had gathered outside the White House's wrought iron fence with signs protesting the super rich top one percent. Keeping the protesters away from the White House fence was a double line of police dressed all in black, each one holding a huge plastic shield in one hand and a black baton in the other.

  The constant movement of the protesters made the single unmoving man at the center of that crowd stand out like an island in the middle of a storm-whipped lake. Also unlike everyone surrounding him, this protester was silent. He held no sign, his arms down by his sides instead of waving a fist or banner in the air. He simply stared with narrowed eyes set within a red face aimed towards the Rose Garden and the president, who was a tiny figure still speaking from behind a podium in the far off distance. The protester's perfect stillness made it hard to look away from him.

  Then he broke that stillness by raising both his hands straight up into the air like a preacher praying to the heavens above. The video filled with red, followed by two seconds of static.

  It took me a second to remember the anchorwoman had said it was a video of the White House explosion. Which meant most of those people I'd just watched were more than likely either hurt or dead.

  The split screen switched back to a single live view of the smoke outside the White House, and the anchorwoman continued speaking. “As previously stated, we do not yet have any official reports, nor do we have any idea of the total number of injuries or fatalities. We will of course keep you posted with any and all updates as we receive them from White House officials as well as the area hospitals. Until then, we can only speculate as to what might have caused this terrible tragedy. While it seems that an aerial attack might be ruled out, some witnesses at the scene have suggested that the explosion sounded like a bomb going off. Witnesses are also reporting that the blast appeared to extend all the way to the garden of the White House, where it is unknown if the president and others at the press conference were injured—”

  Silence for a few seconds while the anchorwoman paused, then her voice returned. “Okay, we've just received word that an emergency press conference is starting. We're taking you live to that conference now.”

  The view on the TV screen changed again. This time a man in a black military uniform with a lot of colorful badges on the left side of his chest stood before the White House seal, which hung against a wall of navy-colored curtains. At the bottom of the screen the news station listed the man's name as General Bridley.

  He cleared his throat then began. “Ladies and gentlemen, the initial reports have been confirmed. At one thirty-two p.m. today an explosion from an as yet undetermined cause occurred outside the perimeter of the White House fence. The blast extended to the Rose Garden where the president was fatally injured.”

  In the silence of my classroom, someone’s stylus fell with a sharp crack onto their desktop then rolled off onto the floor. Two rows away to my right, someone else whispered, “holy crap.”

  The general continued. “President McFadden was determined as fatally injured beyond all possible resuscitation at the scene of the incident. As the rescue efforts continue, we still do not have an exact count of how many others were also injured or killed—”

  “They didn't even try to save him?” some girl whimpered. “Why wouldn't they at least try to save the president?”

  “The blast must have blown off his head or something,” Kyle muttered.

  It was as if Kyle's comment slapped the entire room back into consciousness again. All around me, the class exploded in complete mayhem. Girls burst into tears and covered their faces, many reaching across seat backs or aisles to hug each other. Most of the guys sat frozen in their desks, some shaking their heads in disbelief.

  “It’s another 9/11!” Kyle said, looking ready to tear off the wooden top from his desk with his bare hands. “I can't believe this. The terrorists got us again! We ought to nuke them. Nuke them now and show them what happens when you mess with us.”

  Mr. Sherman yelled at us all to quiet down. It took a couple of minutes till everybody finally settled down enough so we could hear the general as he went on to outline how the vice president, cabinet, and the speaker of the house had all been taken to a secure location during this emergency transition of national leadership.

  Suddenly, the screen's view split again, the general muted on the right as the news anchorwoman broke in on the left.

  “Viewers, we apologize for the interruption, but we've just received more alarming news. Flight 3233, an airbus coming in on approach to Ronald Reagan National Airport just miles from the White House, has also exploded. The explosion occurred approximately three minutes ago while the plane was preparing to land at the airport. We do not yet know if these two incidents are related.”

  The news station switched her side of the screen to a view of a huge passenger jet as it exploded in a fiery ball in mid air.

  Several students gasped again, and the room broke out into more chaos.

  But like the silent protester on TV, I sat frozen in my chair, unable to speak or breathe deeply as the rage and tears flowed all around me.

  My dad, Senator Shepherd, was in D.C. today in session with the rest of Congress. If this was all some kind of attack on Washington D.C....

  Screw the rules against cell phone use during class. This was a family emergency.

  My desk rocked hard as I fumbled for my cell phone in my pocket. Kyle stopped yelling with the others long enough to notice my desk's weird move
ment. He scowled at me with an eyebrow raised as if to ask “what's up with your desk?” I ignored him, searching my phone's Contacts folder for my dad's work numbers instead.

  While I waited for the call to go through to my dad's office, Tarah twisted in her seat to watch me. As usual, the contrast of her dark eyes in that thin, too pale face surrounded by all that long, thick black hair managed to hit me in the gut. And right now, stuck here a thousand miles from D.C. with no news about my dad, I really needed the distraction.

  Nothing about Tarah made sense to me lately. Like now...of all the girls in our class, she was the only one who wasn't falling apart, in spite of how breakable her long, skinny arms and legs always made her seem. While those watchful eyes of hers were as wide with shock as everyone else's, hers were still dry. And she only watched me, making no move to reach out to me or anyone else around her for emotional support.

  She was a mystery I'd spent years trying to understand. And I was running out of time to figure out the answer before graduation.

  The answering machine in Dad's office finally picked up. I ended the call without bothering to leave a message.

  In the background, I heard the anchorwoman on TV continue. “Okay, they're telling me that we now have a cell phone video taken by one of Flight 3233's passengers minutes before the plane's demise. Apparently the person who recorded this was also streaming it live to the internet at the time it was taken.”

  The teacher and several students shushed everyone else so we could hear, a few girls’ quiet sobs in the background around us adding to the nightmarish feel that this couldn’t really be happening.

  The new video showed an airplane cabin filled with passengers. A high pitched female voice, coming from what sounded like inches behind the cell phone, said, “Oh my God. I hope I'm getting this. I'm on a plane flying over Washington D.C. right now, and if you can see this, there's a huge fire in the city. It...it looks like part of the White House just blew up!”

  The girl holding the cell phone pushed it closer to a nearby window, where way off in the distance you could just make out a huge rolling ball of black smoke rising up from the ground, partially blocking out the familiar dome and columns of the White House across the Potomac River.

  Someone else in the background of the video said, “Everyone, please, for your own safety turn off all electronic devices.” The flight attendant apparently.

  Distracted, I looked down at my own phone again. Where was the number for Frank, Dad's aide? Wait, there it was. I hit the Send button to make the call, held the phone to my ear, then glanced back up at the TV.

  “Hey, mister, are you okay?” Cell phone girl asked someone not yet visible in the video.

  She turned the phone's camera to show a man seated between her and the window. The camera was shaky at first, making it hard to see a lot of detail. Then her hand steadied so we could see how the man's face was beet red all over as he turned away towards the window, his breathing fast and harsh as his upper body rocked forward and back.

  “My baby brother. He's gone!” he murmured as tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Your brother was down there?” Cell phone girl asked. A hand appeared from behind the phone to touch the man's shirt sleeve in comfort. “Oh my God, I'm so sorry. But maybe he wasn't hurt. He could still be okay—”

  The man shook his head. “He's gone. I know it. I should have been there to stop him. But I was too late, and now all those people...”

  “Ma'am, please, your phone,” the flight attendant said off-camera.

  Cell phone girl ignored her. “Your brother blew up the White House?”

  “He didn’t mean to!” the man in the window seat shouted. “I know he didn’t. He probably just lost control again. But what do you expect when the descendants keep punishing us for being outcasts?” He paused, his eyes widening. “Oh God. An attack on the president... And the Clann will see it and know... They’re going to come for all of us now, aren’t they? They'll never let the outcasts keep our abilities outside the Clann now. They'll hunt us down and strip us of our powers, or worse, kill us just to keep their precious secrets!"

  “Sir...” The flight attendant again. “Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down or else the air marshal—”

  “It’s too late to calm down,” the man said. “Don’t you get it? My brother’s dead, I’m dead, we’re all dead once they start hunting us!” He jabbed a finger, its nail black with dirt around the edges, at the glass window. His eyes narrowed a second. Then he grabbed the cell phone and began to scream at it, “Outcasts, take back the power that was rightfully yours from birth! The Clann has no right to hog all the money and power in this country just because we don't want to play by their rules anymore. Stand up, end the lies and show the world what you really can do! Make it so that everyone knows about the Clann so that we can all share the wealth equally again. It's not the one percenters who are our enemy, it's the Clann hiding behind their masks and controlling everything from the shadows. Help each other, help yourselves, band together so we outcasts are too strong for them to wipe us out or deny what is ours anymore!”

  In the background the flight attendant shouted for help. A man in plain clothes shoved past the holder of the cell phone camera, attempting to grab the nutcase by the window and drag him out into the aisle.

  “Don't be afraid, outcasts!” the man continued to shout. “There's more of us than them now...thousands, maybe even millions! If we stick together, they can’t wipe us out—”

  The air marshal managed to flip the man face down in the aisle, apparently knocking the wind out of him because he stopped shouting with a loud “oomph”. The cell phone must have fallen out of his hand, because the video's view flipped around for a few seconds before its owner picked it up, righted it once more and began a fast running commentary on the mid-flight arrest.

  But I could no longer hear the girl on the video. All I could hear were the echoes of what the man had shouted.

  The Clann...

  Outcasts...

  Descendants...

  Where had I heard those phrases used together before? And why did they make my heart pound?

  Suddenly the memory of a hard hand gripping my upper arm made me flinch and freeze in my desk.

  You are never to discuss the Clann or anything else you just heard, the memory of a voice echoed through my mind. Do you hear me, Hayden? Promise me!

  I must have been really young when it happened, because I couldn't even fully remember the moment beyond that one bit of shouting and the feeling of that hand on my arm. But I recognized that voice. How could I not? Dad had yelled at me hundreds of times over the years when I screwed up, which was way too often.

  But why would he get so upset about my overhearing those specific terms? What did they even mean, and where would I have heard them before?

  Frowning, I glanced down at my desk, saw my phone still in my hand, and remembered something else. There were way more important things to focus on right now instead of some lunatic terrorist's ravings on TV. Dad. I had to get a hold of Dad and make sure he was okay.

  Dad's aide wasn't answering. Time to try reaching Dad directly. He didn't usually have his phone on while Congress was in session, but I'd run out of other options. I started to hit Send, but my shaking fingers, normally able to pass a spinning basketball from tip to tip without fail, fumbled and nearly dropped the too small gadget.

  Calm down, Shepherd, I told myself.

  After a few deep breaths, I managed to dial the number, only to hear yet another recording, this one tell me the lines were busy and to try again later. I slammed a finger on the End button to stop the call, then hit Send to redial.

  And then the sound of an explosion on TV made my head jerk up again in time to see the screen go red then fill with static. Just like the video of the White House explosion.

  Thankfully my muttered curse was lost beneath the louder reactions of everyone else in the room. Even Tarah turned back towards the front of t
he room to see what had happened.

  “Hayden Shepherd,” Principal Thomas called out from the doorway. Was he yelling at me about my phone? We weren't supposed to have them out during class.

  Though I hadn’t moved, my desk wobbled again, nearly dumping me out onto the carpet. In my ear, the same recording told me my call couldn't go through to Dad.

  Gotta calm down quick before someone notices.

  I looked over at the principal. He jerked his head towards the open door and the hall beyond.

  Maybe he had news about Dad. Someone from Dad's office might have called the school.

  I jumped to my feet and joined him at the door.

  “Did someone call you or...?” I asked as we stepped into the hall and he shut the classroom door behind us.

  “No, not yet. But under the circumstances, I assumed you'd need to be excused early.” He gestured down the long hall towards the front entrance, and we headed that way.

  “Right. Thanks. I'm trying to reach my dad now, but I haven't been able to get through yet.”

  I hit Send again to redial, and finally the phone began to ring. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Hayden,” Dad answered.

  I had to stop walking. “Dad! Are you all right? Where are you?”

  “I'm okay. They're moving us to a secure location.”

  “Is this a terrorist attack? I just saw on the news that the White House and a plane blew up in D.C. Were y'all hit too?”

  “No, we're all okay here. It could be another terrorist attack. We just don't know yet.”

  “Are you coming home?” My voice echoed in the empty hall, bouncing off the walls of red lockers and slippery, freshly mopped linoleum floors.

  “As soon as I can, son.”

  “They're saying…the president—”