The Sword of Saint Michael

a Senator from New York.
Presidents always seemed to either come from New York or wind up there. Jize didn’t much care for his old stomping grounds. But he didn’t blame New York’s residents. Aging cities looked ugly. Plus, everyone had to fit on that tiny island. No, Denver was more to his taste.
Although born in a rural province in China, he was raised in Manhattan. Maybe due to his native roots, he appreciated both the urban and rural lifestyle. And the Colorado Mountain ski towns were the best of both worlds—rural and cosmopolitan.
He recalled his performance for President Nixon at age 12. Although sorely disappointed when he learned that his president was indeed “a crook,” that was nothing compared to the last eight maddening years of that blowhard. Now it was great to have a woman in charge. Her opponents called her a socialist . . . and they were right.
This was how Jize thought it should be.
Affordable medical care for everyone. He loved that an earlier President had gotten us closer to that, but that effort was not as ambitious as that of the new Madame President. It didn’t have to be the best of care. People like Jize, who had made a fortune for himself, deserved to get whatever he could pay for. At least she preserved that part of the system.
And that was how it should be.
Despite his misgivings about New York—he still remembered how he cried at age ten when his family moved to Manhattan, a move aimed at launching his nascent career—he owned an empty penthouse there. When his wife died of a stroke almost four years ago, the high-end Manhattan real estate market had already collapsed, and now he held out for a rebound. With the new President, there just might be one.
A lone tear trickled down his cheek at the mere memory of his wife. Her death sudden, it had affected him deeply.
He looked at his grandson in the back seat who bore some of her facial features.
“Is something wrong, grandpa?”
“No, everything is just fine,” Jize answered.
He turned back and looked around at the beauty of Beaver Park. While he still grieved, he saw a bright future for the world.
It would take a disaster of epic proportions to screw things up.

Day Two
As Jocelyn approached George’s house, she noticed his car wasn’t there, though his truck with the plow was. So that was why he hadn’t plowed—the storm had stranded him elsewhere.
Well, at least she could hang out here until the snow melted. She reminded herself of her one dose of medication left. She was angry at herself for not bringing more to spare on the vigil, but she only got the prescriptions for one month at a time. Then again, she could have chosen three months’ worth. Dammit.
There was nothing to do now but wait for the snow to melt or the plows to arrive.
Don’t panic. Remember your training. One of the two is bound to happen shortly. Maybe the TV will have an explanation for why the plow hasn’t come yet. Perhaps the storm isn’t as bad here as in the valleys.
She knocked on his front door repeatedly before taking out her keys and attempting to unlock it. It turned out it was already unlocked. She had forgotten George usually kept it unlocked during the day. She opened it a little and called out his name several times, and with no reply, she entered the ranch-style house.
Assaulted by a sickly smell that reminded her both of sulphur and rotting meat, only much stronger, she rapidly covered her nose with her jacket as she retched.
She looked around. No one was in the living room or kitchen. She unfastened her snowshoes and walked down the hallway toward his bedroom—the door was open—and saw the source of the putrid stench. On his bed, George lay on his back atop disorderly strewn covers. Pustules oozed all over his exposed skin, with dried blood matting down his hair, surrounding his mouth, and dripping down to his chest. She suppressed a heave and checked him for a pulse, careful not to touch any sores.
Nothing.
His chest didn’t move—he appeared not to breathe at all. She placed her hand above his mouth, but felt no air coming out.
Once sure he was deceased, she no longer held down her vomit and ran to the bathroom. As she leaned over the toilet, spitting out bile, even her training didn’t prevent tears from streaming down her cheeks. Everything had gone to shit, George was dead, and why the hell can’t she just get out of here? She brushed her face and reflected on the sores and realized he must have been deceased for only a couple hours. Now guilt set in as she cursed herself for not getting there sooner, her vigil be damned. It seemed less important by the minute.
And then, from the hall, she heard fast, heavy footsteps.
She turned around. George was rushing through the doorway.


Day Zero
Alexander ran for his life, darting around crowds of people and yelling things like, “Everybody run,” and “They’re attacking,” and “Follow me.” No one heeded him. Instead, he caught glimpses of bewilderment and fear directed toward him.
He reached the lodge and climbed up the stairs, past the check-in counter, past the concierge, and to the left, down a long hallway with elbow turns and out the side entrance where he had parked his car. He spotted it—a blue, late-model Toyota Camry, with California license plates. Hot and sweaty, he took off his tweed jacket. He looked at it for a moment and became very annoyed at how dirty it was. Shrugging, he tossed it onto the passenger seat as he sat in the Camry’s driver’s seat, then grabbed the seatbelt and was about to fasten it when he thought better. Law enforcement officials sometimes don’t use seatbelts so they can get out quickly in the event of an emergency. He wanted that same advantage.
Starting the ignition, he tapped the accelerator to back up, but the