Dead Souls

The US President regretted waking up the second after he checked his phone. First of all there were a total of seventeen missed calls, most of them from Vice President Lottie Gibson, and such a large pile of messages that his phone felt heavier in his hand. Secondly, it was already 11:45am. He'd overslept several of his alarms. Usually Monica would have been able to wake him up at a last resort, but she'd had to leave even earlier, and had assumed he'd wake up like he always did. He'd never overslept before. Not a single morning in his whole political career. 

The first few headlines of the New York Times told him all he needed to know.

NAVY SUBMARINE SINKS IN NORTH-PACIFIC 

WASHINGTONS HUNTER-KILLER SUBMARINE SINKS MILES OFF WEST COAST 

122 DEAD, MILITARY SUBMARINE SINKS OFF THE COAST OF ALASKA

The last, but newest headlines were the one that would affect him the most. He read them with a heavy heart. Not only had 122 men lost their lives, but he'd overslept it. 

FOURTEEN HOURS SINCE SUBMARINE DISASTER AND STILL NO ADRESS FROM THE WHITE HOUSE.

He clicked onto the article. He read the first few paragraphs as he stood up and walked to the bathroom. He'd cut the shower today, he needed to get to work as soon as possible...

17 November 8.52pm an unexpected explosion occured on a naval submarine 52 nautical miles off of Alaska. The US-Hunter-Killer-Submarine was performing various military exercises in the North Pacific Ocean when a sudden and unexplained explosion occured. The submarine was 30 feet under the surface.

He lay his phone on the counter and grabbed his toothbrush. Alistair didn't hurry, but he also diddn't taddle. He freshened up as best he could without taking a shower, put on one of his everyday suits and fixed his tie whilst leaving his bedroom. The second he burst out of his bedroom he was greeted by several security guards and Vice President Gibson. She had a look of pure panic on her face, and under the anxious creases on her forehead and around her eyes were disgusted lines. "Alistair, what the fuck did you take last night that you didn't wake up? We had the information at 8.55pm. Not even ten-year-olds are asleep by nine!" Her voice had started off a low-hiss, but towards the end of her monologue it turned into a downright screech. "The entire country is waiting for your adress, and they're fucking furious. You've had over fourteen hours time! And you haven't said anything!" The shriek-owl evolved into a shrill alarm system, wining and blaring into Alistair's ears. "What the fuck were you doing? I've had the writers cook up a speech for you, but I'm sorry to say they haven't found a good enough excuse to get you off the hook. You need to do something, now!" He'd listened patiently while walking next to his fuming vice-president, but suddenly he'd had enough of her blabbing. 

"I know, Lottie." He was about to say more, but he fell silent. His silence scared the vice-president more than any stupid excuse she'd expected him to try and fish out of his pockets. "I'm sorry." He said, turning to her before he entered his office. "Get a camera crew. I'll adress the nation in fifteen minutes. I'm writing my own apology. See to it that no one enters my office until then." He shut the door on both her and the security mens faces. For the first time in his term as president, Lottie Gibson feared he'd take his life. He did have a pistol in his bottom drawer. She shot a glance at security. After a moment of hesitation she called Abby over to organize a camera crew. 

Alistair had no intention whatsoever of taking his life. He didn't even consider that an option. Suicide had never been a present thing in his mind; not even in the dark chambers of the back of his head. But he did find Annelieses words streaming into his mind. That he should join the Hitlerjugend. Learn some responsibility and to do his duty. To accept the part of his job he didn't like. To own up to his mistakes.

He sat down at his desk. The first thing he wrote on the paper was a reminder to hold the speech standing up; but then he crossed it out. He didn't need to write himself a reminder for that; he simply couldn't adress the nation in another way. What was he supposed to say? Everyone knew that the president of the united states was never unreachable; so why hadn't he been reached? Had nobody come into his room to wake him? He'd expect them too, that was their job! But then he remembered how his door had been unlocked. Somebody had been inside his room, they must have. He picked up the phone but slammed it back on the receiver a second later. He'd have time to question his employees after the speech. 

But his mind started to flood with dark images. Perhaps they had been in to wake him; tearing at him, slapping his face across both cheeks, injecting some kind of steriod into his bloodstream, calling doctor after doctor. Lottie had seemed like she'd thought he was on drugs. So why hadn't he woken up? Was he so emerged in the Germany of 1938 that his body had become unreactive to touch and medecine? He shook his head clear. Focus, Alistair. 

Eleven minutes later his speech was finished. A minute after that he opened the door to his camera crew.