Empire by Orson Scott Card Page A

only a moment of hesitation. Then men began running. The bad news—but fully predictable—was that the receptionist said, “The lines are dead.”
    To which Reuben said, “Then somebody get in your ranger jeep and get to a building that still has a phone. The Holocaust Museum.
Not
the Jefferson Memorial.”
    The good news was that they were up-to-date weapons that seemed clean and had plenty of ammo. Reuben and Coleman grabbed them and ran for the car. There was a ticket on the windshield. Coleman turned on the windshield wiper and after a few swipes it blew away as they drove back along Buckeye Drive and then under the 395 overpass. “Who had time to write us a ticket?” said Reuben.
    â€œIt was probably an envelope filled with anthrax,” said Coleman. “That’s why I didn’t take it off by hand.”
    â€œNo, don’t turn there—we’re not going to try to shoot from the Jefferson Memorial. The Independence Av bridge and the cars on itwill block any kind of clean shot.” Reuben directed him up to West Basin Drive as he checked to make sure both weapons had full clips.
    â€œYou realize this is Friday the thirteenth,” said Cole.
    â€œScrew you,” said Malich.
    They drove among the tourist cars until they came to Independence Avenue itself, which was completely blocked going toward the bridge, and had no traffic coming the other way.
    They stopped the car and ran for it. Not that far along the bridge—but too far, if the terrorists had already made it out of the water long enough to have traffic blocked.
    When Reuben and Coleman got onto the bridge, they saw two rocket launchers being set up simultaneously, while a guy with a protractor—a simple junior-high protractor!—was standing at a particular fence post and now was indicating where the launchers should be aiming.
    Another guy—there were only the four in wet suits, as far as Reuben could see—was standing in the westbound lanes, which passed behind the retaining wall and did not go over the bridge. He was holding a sign.
    â€œThere’s more guys than that,” said Coleman. “Somebody cut those phone lines.”
    â€œI wonder what that sign says,” said Reuben.
    Whatever it said, it was enough to keep the drivers in place without much honking. And because of the blockage going that direction, traffic was stopped cold the other way, too. It would delay any military vehicles that might attempt to stop them. And delay was all they needed. With these guys, there’d be no escape plan. Though if they
did
happen to live long enough to get away from the Tidal Basin, they’d no doubt run to the Holocaust Museum and start killing Jews and Jewish sympathizers—which is what they would assume the Holocaust Museum would contain. Oh, yes—and schoolchildren.
    Reuben knew they wouldn’t get that far.
    He and Coleman had line of sight. They got down, and—
    And a bullet pinged into the guardrail.
    So they dropped down prone and sighted under the rail. They both fired.
    The guy with the protractor spun and dropped. A shoulder wound, probably, thought Reuben. “Were you aiming at him?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” said Coleman. He’d been sighting on the guy with the sign.
    â€œThen I must have been,” said Reuben.
    One of the boneheads in the car behind them had rolled down his window. “Is this, like, a war game?”
    â€œThis is not a drill,” said Reuben calmly. “Get down inside your car as low as you can.”
    By now the guys with the launchers were lying flat, still preparing their launch. There was no clear shot at them.
    The guy who had held the sign was firing at them. And Reuben and Coleman couldn’t get to a different position, because now the shots hitting around them were pretty steady. The close ones were not coming from the guy with the sign.
    â€œThey’re not trying,” said Reuben.