The air was thick with dust and the spring sun shone brightly upon the streets of Raleigh, water vapor wafting up in visible swirls of mist. It looked like a war zone. The streets were clogged with the discarded remnants of both campaigns and a few of the mop-up crews were starting to make their way among the day’s carnage. Survivors and staff alike were slowly making their way out; some headed for home, others gathering to muster forces and plan for the battle ahead.
Beneath the hotel that had served as campaign headquarters, those who remained inside the “bunker” were nervous. There was no trace of the pomp and confidence of earlier times. No sign of the inevitable march to victory that formed the core of their collective being since before New Hampshire. The gaunt ruins of their strategy lay across the table, delegate projections on flat screen graphic displays spelling out in stark detail their inevitable defeat.
After a somber breakfast, most of the leading figures in the campaign were assembled. None of them spoke of the looming catastrophe and all of them swore their undying loyalty. There were still primaries to be fought, still a chance that some elected delegates could be found, superdelegates somehow persuaded. Still a chance that a last minute miracle could happen.
At least Mark had gotten out a few months ago, with what seemed to be brilliant prescience, and half-a-million transferred to his accounts in New York. He was brilliant. He was a rat. He was brilliant. He was a rat.
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes before the polls closed. Thirty minutes before the end of all their hopes unless they could win them both. One of the interns came around with some champagne, and some people listlessly drank, but most of the staff gathered in small groups to whisper about what might come next. What should they do? Was there a place for them on the other side? What would the Senator do? They had sworn never to take second place, but now that defeat loomed near maybe the time had come to reconsider?
If their armies were not victorious today, there was nothing to look forward to but a few small primaries and the long march to the final battle at the convention, with endless diplomatic maneuvering amid calls for capitulation. As the returns came in, the senior staff made plans for the next battle, and the next bunker. Soon enough it would be the final battle in the final bunker, the bunker from which there could be no retreat and the campaign would emerge victorious or dead.
Though the sky was clear, they could hear thunder move closer. It grew cold.
