Stateside, the President ordered a complete lockdown. The plague spread by leaps and bounds. Hospital corridors filled with gurneys lined head to toe. Providing their patients with the best medical care, doctors and nurses worked overtime. Still, they lost more than they could save.
Restaurants, grocery stores, and malls ran on a skeleton crew. They required only necessary employees to work. A limited requirement concerning the number of shoppers allowed inside became effective. Multiple businesses handed out layoffs by the dozens. People wondered how they were going to survive. The plague worried them, and so did the lack of a paycheck.
Mask mandates went into effect.
The words Plague and Pandemic became commonplace. The news readers, reporting from home, spoke of a vaccine. However, it might take years to develop one.
Around the world, other countries enforced similar orders.
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The Pentagon recommendation Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot awaited lay on the President’s desk. Abraham Q. Morton, better known as President Shilly-Shally, lackadaisically pushed it aside. A raid into the mountainous region of Iran went against his political agenda. One false move and World War Three lay on his doorstep.
A diplomatic approach seemed the better option. He requested the State Department seek peace talks with Iranian officials. His party backed him.
President Morton faced the plague pandemic only six months after taking the oath of office. He realized it could make or break his political career. Morton did not wish for his new position. His colleagues in the Senate pressured him into running for POTUS. They made him believe he remained their only hope to pull the country back to their agenda. Serving for thirty-six years as the lead Senator from Illinois, he sat on many committees and chaired a several. He gained the respect of his associates and his constituents.
In a weak moment, Morton decided to crown his achievements by seeking the highest office in the land. Truthfully, he would rather retire. However, he decided he could give another four or eight years to the people he served. Throwing his hat in the ring, he felt surprised to find himself headlining his party's National Convention. Then, following a landslide election, Abraham Q. Morton became the duly elected President of the United States.
Morton sat behind the Resolute Desk. Sweat beaded his bald pate. Anxiously, he dabbed it with an extra-large white handkerchief. He had not told anyone about his fever. It came, and it went. During the day, the fever varied with freezing sweats. Holding firm, he continued with his daily schedule. However, he wished he could crawl into bed and stay there.
"Half an hour, Mr. President." A curly red head poked into the office. It belonged to his press secretary. The half an hour warning signaled a public address. Nervously, he shuffled his notes. Speaking to the public gave him the willies. The chills returned.
A replica Resolute Desk sat in the center of a dummy Oval Office. The country believed President Abraham Q. Morton still resided in the White House. However, as soon as the plague pandemic broke, he swiftly moved into a Kentucky bunker. His wife, Mildred, shared his cramped quarters.
Along with his eight grandchildren, his four sons and their wives resided with them. At first, the youngsters enjoyed what they referred to as "camping." After eight weeks, they became antsy. The whole group played on Morton’s nerves.
The President spoke for two straight hours. Assuring the people they were safe, he outlined a rigorous course of action to avoid contracting the plague. He begged everyone to stay inside and shelter in place. Only necessary excursions out of the home would be tolerable. His family, he stated, would lead by example. They remained safe and sound in their homes. Mildred promised to pray to the All-Mighty to bring them through this difficult time.
President Morton did not refer to the military plan of action. He never mentioned the potential threat from Iran or the possible plague origin. According to his speech, the pestilence simply appeared as a twist of fate. He intended to deal with it as such. Secretly, he believed his assurances, although all evidence pointed directly to the Iranian source.
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Outside the White House, crowds began to gather. Rumor spread that the plague represented a means of mass extinction. The Iranians were behind it, the gossips claimed. Angrily, the mob protested the President's inaction. Many ignored the mask mandate. They wanted the truth and demanded it.
“President Waffle Iron,” Abraham Morton chuckled, watching the news broadcast from his bunker. “That’s a new one.”
Signs bearing his face with waffle indents rose above many others. Angry protesters yelled out the nickname. Their maskless faces showed their fury.
"Do you think it's funny?" Millie asked. His wife perched in an armchair beside him. She had remained by his side from the beginning of his political career. All the ups and down of the election trail lay behind her. Never would she participate in another one. When she and Abe were alone in bed, she reminded him they had been on their last campaign.
“Well, in a way…” Abraham began, then sealed his lips. The stern look on Millie’s face shut him down.
Morton knew her opinion. Mildred had not been pleased about his presidential hopes. She believed he would leave the Senate quietly and live out the rest of his life in retirement. Arizona remained foremost on her mind. A lovely hacienda in the desert lay far away from DC and outside the beltway.
Politics had been fun at first, but then it had gotten nasty. Millie had made many friends amongst the wives on both sides of the aisle. But, when election season came around, it was every man and woman for themselves. Mudslinging became a spectator sport. Millie did not like it, never had.
The office of the President of the United States was a tumultuous one. The POTUS was either loved or hated. Ugly rumors flew. Ugly names described good men who tried to do their best. Impossible to make everyone happy. "Waffle Iron" was one of the mild ones.
As First Lady, Millie Morton constantly stood under the spotlight. Dissenters ridiculed her clothes and shoes continuously. She had been dowdy her entire life. Buxom and running plump, she knew she was not attractive. People oinked at her when she appeared in public and yelled, "This little piggy went to market." Millie cringed.
“We’re getting out of politics when your term is over,” Mildred abruptly stated, rising.
Without awaiting a response, she disappeared into their makeshift bedroom.
The room was not a definite replica of the White House. It contained a simple bed, two nightstands, and a dresser. A small bathroom led from it. Millie sighed. Abe promised they would not stay here long. They would move back to the White House as soon as the plague broke.
In the sitting room, the President stood and yawned. Absently, Abraham Q. Morton scratched beneath his armpit. He paused and thought a moment. Then he stripped off his undershirt. His roaming fingers discovered a small bubble.
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