What has gone before: Truth Bugs did their deeds almost six years ago. Unfortuantly, humans did as humans seem to always want to do with some reverting to bad ole habits. Watchers had no choice but to contact Kosong 4, alert levels raised to Z12. No choice but to intervene again. Will this be the last time?
Episode 5
TRUTH on the MOVE
July 4 2026, 6.00am Chesapeake Bay Bridge tunnel (CBBT) Control Room 2
Through the control room window, Duane had one last look at the failing night sky into the Atlantic dawn before the shift swap with Silas, noting what was a clear night appears to be morphing into fog about ten miles out. Control room door opens, “Hey Duane, uneventful night?” “Yeh buddy nothing going on. Did you notice that fog bank while driving in? Duane surprised by the slightly raised tone of his question, after all it wasn’t the first time fog happened out there.
“Nah man, sun was happily poking up over the horizon when I pulled in”. Head now on swivel through the window and forced to agree with the fog bank. “Sheeit, where did that come from”, as Duane realised the fog was less than a mile away now. “What? No way Silas, it was out at the horizon a minute ago, a bit freaky man!!”, just as a fog whisp touched the glass with a corresponding pins n needles sensation full body experience that left as soon as it entered.
Duane felt more than heard a thump in the doorway as the wind picked up to banshee level and turned to yell at Silas to close the damn door shocked to not see Silas but only his beloved MAGA hat floating in a diminishing grey pool that appeared to have a life of its own sliding down the universal access ramp to the carpark slithering over the rocks below to rejoin the now rolling fog. Duane, could only stare at the red until it disappeared into the grey everywhere around.
Only then did he shake himself free of panic induced stasis, realising that sea water levels were about a foot over the car park. Emergency mode finally kicking in frantically closing the door from whatever was outside, belted the alarm, got on the two way with Control Room 2, started dialling up the Coastguard and Police then realising not a sound or light was operating. His watch said 6.08am and he sat there the brain refusing to cooperate with what had happened especially to Maga Silas. It was as if the whole world had abandoned him and everyone else out here. Slumped in the chair with eyes closed mulling the grim reality behind closed lids just as light appeared to brighten enough for the lids to open to a clear sun shiny day over the Atlantic.
Overwhelming fatigue greeted his legs forcing them to the door, opening to fresh air with the slightest of a bitter tang. “Oh God” repeated as deep lungful’s sucked in and slowly exhaled as his vision cast out to familiar places along the great bay. “Thank fuck the car park is bone dry, where the heck is Tangier Island? He grabbed the binoculars just in time to see what appeared to be the back of a sparkly oil slick wave rolling off the far side of the Island heading further up the estuary. Binoculars lowered, nose itchy and dripping and finger goes up to rub, coming back down to see what appeared to be a translucent grey film that slid off the finger far easier than water did. “Huh, what the fuck was that? What was what? I am so damn tired, what is the time?
Watch checked and 6.37am brings Duane back to his job at hand doing overtime, looking inwards to the control room with the boards all normal. “Where the heck is Silas? This Trump DEI hire crap is doing my head in”.
6.52am Colonial Beach Tidal Station records a surge above the expected incoming tide.
7.30am Fort Washington Tidal Station records a surge 3ft 2 inches above expected incoming tide. Skeleton staff at NOAA’s tide monitoring centre are busy finishing up decking the building entry in festive streamers and balloons that they miss the King tide alert lighting up the monitoring boards. The incoming tide is not due for another four hours, so it is not surprising that it was missed and by the time they were back at the monitor boards, the King Tide alert had disappeared into the archives of time.
11 Truth on the Quiet
7.49am East Wing White House Ballroom Construction site:
“What do you mean it isn’t finished? Where is my bunker? You do know that if I had my bunker that shooter wouldn’t have even got to the lobby at the Hilton!! I want my bunker and yesterday!!!” Aecom’s lead site structural engineer, Vladimir inwardly winced at the temper tantrum playing out knowing full well that yet again any technical based reply would be a waste of time. He mulled over talking about the issues with the unstable sediments and finding solid base for the last 24 Bore piles, but was jerked back to harsh reality with “Well? Suzy (Wiles), sack him!! Useless, low IQ loser!!”.
“Mr President, Sir … we must get to solid rock base. It is anticipated sometime in the next 36 hours ……”. Vladimir trails off realising that he is no longer standing still, instead he is swaying as is the President, Suzy and the Secret Service detail of four.
He casts a slightly alarmed eye up to 64% complete secant pile wall 3 and to the surrounding completed walls descending 60 feet below ground level, to be temporarily relieved that everything is still intact. “Looking solid.”, partly muttered to self. Swaying subsided only to be replaced by a deep ground rumbling with pins n needles seeping up through the soles of his feet, working its way through the ankles and up via every bone to his skull to the point of screaming, not quite, but almost.
He looked towards the President and the Secret Service detail, who appeared to be experiencing the same sensations with three of the four detail getting tangled up and going down hard, knocking Trump to the floor in the process.
Everything stopped, a silence too loud for a pin drop and in unison the 24 bore pile cases ring in Buddhist monk harmonics while fountains erupt from the top of the casings a slick grey, blue and white glitter party down on them all.
The show is all for none to see apart from those sixty feet down below ground level.
Vladimir finds himself tugging viciously at his left ear, right eye socket feeling like it is about to explode, then pins and needles are no more with the ear and right eyeball feeling human again. A shocking realisation that the only people standing are Suzy Wiles, himself and SSPD1, Trump’s personal protection detail lead. Only SSPD1’s mum, wife and Suzy know him by his real name – Reg.
Head and eyes reluctantly swivel downwards to witness the indescribable.
What appeared to be a chin and mouth are still moving in the middle of random chunks of hair floating on an orange seep teeming with lots and lots of tiny bugs purposefully munching up the last of the orange seep and coalescing to remaining hairs, chin and mouth to devour as one.
More appeared to be excreting something 6 ft 3” away and in a blink of the eye, (or was that two blinks?) a pair of black “Florsheim shoes, and socks over what appeared to be an ankle shape appearing. “Those shoes, why do I know those shoes?” SSPD 1 blurts out, “Boss?”
A few feet away more bugs are working on three of the secret service agents who are mainly intact albeit a bit bloody from torn ears, ruptured eye sockets and general harsh self-inflicted scratches. A mobile workshop, the bugs work as one repairing the agent’s bits ‘n’ pieces.
Stares return to the one as the wave layered out something human shaped underneath finally peeling off across the floor coalescing with three other bug masses heading towards Bore Pile DT234 Sec A.
Vladimir stared at Suzy and SSPD 1 who stared back and they all stare down and stare back at each other in unison as the bugs seemingly dissipate into the grey shimmering stuff, moving in unison across the pit floor, up the outside of the bore casings to disappear over the top and inside.
Micro moments later the full body pins and needles sensation dissipates via the feet followed by fading and rhythmic seismic rumbling echoing through the unstable riverine sediments somewhere near the Potomac River.
Absolute silence. He sneezes as Suzy and the Secret Service agent sneeze, in unison they rub the back of hands against their noses, to see teardrops of grey dissipate from the back of their hands into blue and white shimmer and upwards, gone into the sunny blue above.
Three of the Secret Service agents are in the process of helping Trump up from the floor, “Mr President Sir, you okay?” as he stands up to his imposing 6ft 3” plus heels. “Of course, heck of a shake, all the bits are working.” He brushes back the mane of his whitehair flopped heavily over his nose bridge.
“Suzy, where was I? Oh yeh, getting this DOGE folly sorted out, damn Musk and his data dump battery! Look, simple, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon – you know, multi-levelled cascade of plant layers, you know we could dome it up like an atrium, maybe have one clear wall with a cut through of those unstable sediments that DC sits on.
Vlad, that’ll work won’t it? Maybe get that ahh Roundy fella, the landscape guy to have a look.” Vladimir caught thinking about his extended family barbeque menu, “halal, non halal, damn tricky…….umm yes, Mr President, will get going on that. Will work up some concepts and back to you Thursday next week?”
“Suzy arrange that will you. Looking forward to it and ah make sure you get some “Ecology” in it as well, not a word that everyone knows, traditional, but a great word that ahhh “Ecology”, best word, ahh and some ah what is it? Ah yes, Biomass!! Must have some of that as well, best so heavy a word, biomass, rolls off the tongue, must get some of that too ….”
He trails off, swivelling towards Bore Pile DT234 Sec A, staring at it as if searching for some lost crypto in the aether, but then forgetting what the passing thought was.
Suzy and Vladimir almost in tandem “Yes Mr President.” Suzy checks her watch as 7.58am. self muttering “crap, only two minutes to official start of the Ex-Presidents breakfast leading onto MAGA brunch. We do need to move it.”
Trump setting the pace back to the pit lift, “Suzy you sorted those seating arrangements out? Got a new set of Aviators, reckon Joe will be jealous and need to get some one liners off Barack to out wisecrack Stevie Coolbert on Tuesday, besides you hear that stomach of mine?
Her stomach suddenly unsettled, Suzy’s thoughts transgress to a memory of six years earlier about people getting eaten and put back together. “What was that about? Truth watcher warning? Something on whatsapp back then? A space alien email waiting in my inbox after the Alaska wilderness trip?” Her thoughts warm in memory of the Alaska night glow around the campfire and good company.
“That was some trip, campfires were awesome!” A small smile twinkle at her 2am prowess with a blues harp (A of course) around the campfire. “I surprised quite a few!” An inward chuckle follows, and is immediately replaced by, “Human eating bugs ???” “I saw it? Didn’t I??” The thought dribbling away into the scarcity of mind and the more she thought the more she didn’t care.
Almost up out of the elevator, thoughts are in the MAGA 250 Brunch. Checklist starts: “Umbrellas, furniture, catering, seating arrangement at the Big 50 table – checked off, right ahhhh … Emergency Protocols …. what was that sinkhole incident in 2108? Must have been fixed otherwise we wouldn’t be doing this today.” Her thoughts move to the mundane like responding to terrorist attack or assassination attempt. “For a chat to Reg later, so well-rehearsed we are”. For now, the thought is parked lower down the priority pecking order and purposefully towards breakfast they all go.
Stay tuned for Episode 6 landing on July 1st – Truth in all its Gory.
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