Chapter 32
Waiting for the whites in their eyes
At six twenty, there was a general stirring in the background, and the sound of a small herd of people approaching. Nom didn't even have to look to know. Given the level of security, the studio was under; the President had arrived. The show went to a commercial, and the cast came over to pay homage to their great patron.
The President of the United States, stood in the middle of the studio getting his ass spit-polished by the very people who had put him into office. For a change, he was actually being polite rather than boorish. For every ten compliments he took in, he returned one and a bit of change. He praised the cast for their "great reporting and honesty."
The President was escorted by Der'Mo News host, Krysa Litso. Unbeknownst to many Americans, the arch conservative conspiracy theorist had become one of the closest advisors the leader of the free world had. The two spoke multiple times a day via phone, text, and Skype. The President had even consulted him while in the situation room, taking the commentators advice over trained military officers'. Krysa Litso would be joining the hosts in welcoming the President on air.
The love fest might have run on for another hour or more, had the producer not informed the cast via their ear pieces that the commercial break would be over in thirty seconds.
Apologizing, Sunny Torkret and his gang, along with Krysa Litso made their way back to the sofa and took their positions. When the little red lights on the cameras returned, the quartet giggled to the camera. They were like a nerdy junior high girl being asked out by the captain of the football team.
The special guest had arrived. With quite the fan fair and a recorded playing of Hail to the Chief. The President was called onto the set. The cast reenacted their ass kissing from a few minutes before.
Nom looked around. The Secret Service people were milling around. Their eyes seemed to be everywhere at once. Well, no matter, if he was going to act. It was now or never.
Time seemed to implode. It rushed inward on Nom and then reached an infinite resistance for an instant. It was not that Nom had slowed time. Rather like any person in a crisis, his perception of time sped up to a point that it seemed the whole world was slowing.
Nom felt into the life fires of everyone in the studio. He felt their wills, their breaths, their pulses, and drives. The agents he truly felt sorry for. Like soldiers in a war, they were born to fight on the wrong side. These men and women would be shedding their mortal coils in another breath's time.
The fastest means of disabling them Nom could think of was aortic aneurisms. It would be painful, but it would be quick. A matter of a few seconds and they would be unconscious on the floor, their life's blood filling their chests. No matter what aid was rushed in, there was no means of saving them once he struck.
Setting the unfortunate fate of the agents aside, Nom reached into the show's hosts and triggered in each an absence seizure. It was a simple feat to do, since they were essentially brain-dead zombies to begin with. Killing off a few brain cells in the likes of those four would hardly be noticeable.
The crew did not get off so easily. Nom caused a so called hang man's fracture at their C2 vertebra. He left them to gasp in shock and awe on the floor.
It was done, and the time of a breath had past. Nom came to his feet as the people around him fell like stringless puppets to the floor. One stride and the agents started to fall. Two steps and the cast were all down. With the third, the crew were on the ground.
Torkret and his colleagues were frozen solid statues staring off at nothing, surrounded by a sea of corpses. Every voluntary muscle in their bodies locked tighter than the ass of a mosquito stretched over a rain barrel. The only other person even remotely conscious in the room was the President, and Nom was coolly walking directly towards him. A voice from the corridor rang out
"Halt!" It called.
But Nom kept walking.
Nom felt a wind passing through the middle of his chest and turned in surprise to see the ending of a muscle flash. A Secret Service agent was recovering from the recoil of discharging her weapon.
"Little minx must have sprinted faster than a rabbit." Nom thought. Supplying a suicidal thought into her, took all the time he could spare. He continued his spin full circle towards the President. With his next step, he heard a sickening blast and splatter sound. He knew the splatter marked the ending of the minxy agent's life.
Glancing down at his chest, Nom was shocked to see that he was not wounded. His shirt was torn as if he had been shot.
"Didn't I feel a bullet pass through me?" He thought aloud.
Striding on, he adjusted his tie to cover the rip in his shirt.
"It sure looked like it did." The President muttered looking a bit shocked. He pointed a shaky hand at Nom as he approached the set from the side. "Look, it even tore a hole in the back of your coat."
Nom stepped into the fake living room set and spared a glance for the jacket.
"Damn!" He thought. "I was hoping to look my best. I guess adjusting my tie in the front won't fix this."
In the back of his mind Nom knew that his thoughts about being invulnerable had, at least in part been proven. If a .357 could pass cleanly through his chest without hurting him, then he had little to worry about when it came to melee combat.
"Stand up." Nom said to the President.
He stood, and suddenly the world disappeared for him.
Nom looked into his eyes and saw a lack of pupal response.
"That should do the trick." He said, nodding to himself. A shove sent the President, who was stiff as a board, back onto the couch. Catatonia could be a bitch. Walking five feet to the nearest agent's corpse, Nom pulled out his side arm. It had a round in the chamber, was fully loaded, and only needed to have the safety released. Nom grabbed his spare magazines.
Then a thought hit him, his new Armani coat was ruined. The Secret Service agent wasn't that far off from his size. The man's suit was cheap, and the coat didn't match his pants. But, the man did have a flack vest on under his dress shirt. In a pinch, it would do to cover the bullet holes in his shirt. Nom stripped the corpse. When he pulled off his coat and tried on the vest, he found that it was a hair too tight in the mid-section, making it difficult to breathe. A quick inspection showed the Velcro straps were adjustable. Checking himself in a nearby makeup mirror, Nom tucked his tie behind the vest.
Nom did a quick check of the bodies and borrowed the phones from three tecs. Using the finger print scanners, he used their deceased owners' prints to gain access. A quick moment on the Google play store put the desired news apps on each.
It was show time.