There was damage was on the stairs too, torn pieces of signs and posters, more bullet casings. Sam eased further down the narrow metal steps, wincing when her sole flapped loudly. She went through each door she found, coming right back out of most - the fire damage and reek of corpses was simply too much. On the wall next to the door marked only as 'M', was a charred and broken hand scanner, and Sam knew she was in the right place.
Open, riddled with gunshots, the door hung crookedly on the frame and looked like it had fared the best. The room itself was destroyed - broken furniture, bodies, glass, and bloody papers littering the thin, red carpet. Her eyes scanned the room, but saw no other exits, no other doors. Surely, there was more than this?
Climbing the stairs to the previous floor, Samantha noticed another door in the shadows of the wall, another melted hand scanner. When the door wouldn't open, she frowned. Survivors who had locked themselves in? What should she do? Sam looked down, saw that the floor was dark and blackened as if it had been burned. Her stomach lurched as she realized what odor was lurking under the harsh smell of smoke.
The Storm Tracker stumbled back up the metal stairs, trying not to gag. After that, it was a struggle just to make herself open the next door, let alone explore the two or three tunnels off each one. She found closets and storage areas, a lot of offices and strategy rooms, but the damage was complete. The blood was so thick on some floors that the Presidential seal was no longer visible.
She'd found a lounge that had been stripped of everything, two burnt-out cafeterias, laundry rooms without a sheet or blanket, and three medical bays that were heavily damaged - not even a box of bandages spared. The men who had done this had made sure that anyone who survived, would find nothing to help keep them alive.
Back on the ground floor, her eyes were drawn to a small painting of President Clinton. It hung askew, revealing another dark shadow. Set into the stone, it was a "throw room", a secure area where the Secret Service could literally throw a person so they'd be safe, while the agents guarded the hatch, the only way in or out. This one had a bloody handprint on the rail that she avoided as she hefted herself into the 4x4 opening, thinking it clearly hadn't held.
The hole dumped her out onto a thick mat, in a narrow hall with seven doors. She listened intently before opening each one, but heard nothing. Although constructed with comfort in mind, the Presidential retreat contained no little treasures with which to line her pockets. Nothing had survived, and the smells had her covering her mouth as she explored the site of her country's last stand.