Zombie Apocalypse

by Cassiday, Bryan

  Byrd stood beside Cole and began to punch his confirmation code into the football.

  Dr. Laslo found the suspense excruciating. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t just sit here, doing nothing, and let the president annihilate the country with nuclear bombs.

  Invigorated by an adrenaline rush, Dr. Laslo bolted out of his seat, his face working, lunged for his Glock 19, which was lying on the polished tabletop in front of Mellors, and snapped up the pistol before Mellors had a chance to forestall him.

  Dr. Laslo trained the gun’s muzzle on Byrd. “Don’t do it, General.”

  Taken aback, Byrd stopped punching in his code and sized up Dr. Laslo. “Are you mad?”

  “I’m not the one who’s mad, General,” said Dr. Laslo, his hand shaking with the pistol in it.

  “Put that away before you hurt somebody.”

  “You’re the one who’s about to blow up the country. Who’s the real madman here?”

  “Put that away, I’m telling you.”

  “Step away from the football. I can’t allow you to go through with this insanity.”

  “Or what? You’ll shoot me?”

  “If it’s the only way to stop you, I will.”

  “You can’t even hold that gun straight. Your hand’s shaking like you got the d.t.’s.”

  “I don’t want to pull this trigger, but I will if you force me to.”

  Byrd didn’t step away from the football. “You can’t pull that trigger. You’re a doctor. You don’t take lives. You save lives.”

  “If I shoot you, I’ll be saving the lives of countless millions of Americans.”

  “The decision to use WMD has already been made by me, Doctor,” said Cole. “It’s out of your hands. I’m the president of the United States. I’m the commander in chief. I take full responsibility for what must be done.”

  “I can’t let you do it, Mr. President,” said Laslo.

  “You need to dial it back a notch, Doctor,” said Harold Paris.

  “Put that gun away and let General Byrd proceed with his confirmation of my order,” Cole told Dr. Laslo. “That’s a direct order from your commander in chief.”

  Byrd reached toward the football to type in the next numeral in his code.

  “Don’t do that, General,” said Dr. Laslo.

  “You can’t pull that trigger.”

  Byrd punched in the numeral then checked the “biscuit” to find out the next character in the code.

  Gritting his teeth, sweating freely, Dr. Laslo jabbed his pistol forward. “Don’t do that, General, or I’ll shoot.”

  “You’re committing treason if you pull that trigger,” said Cole, his voice steady. “Treason is punishable by execution.”

  “You’re the traitors. I’m saving the country from you.”

  Byrd reached toward the football to punch in the rest of his code.

  A shot rang out.

  Everybody in the room froze, except Dr. Laslo.

  Dr. Laslo grimaced and slumped to the floor.

  FBI Director Paris was sitting across the table from Dr. Laslo with a Sig Sauer P226 in his hand leveled at the crumpling figure of Laslo. Stricken with grief, his face wan, Paris dropped his automatic to the tabletop.

  “You had to do it, Harry,” said Cole. “It was the right thing to do.”

  “Laslo was a traitor,” said Byrd. “The only good traitor is a dead traitor.” He eyed Dr. Laslo’s bloody body sprawled beside the table leg. “It was the right call.”

  Byrd snagged Dr. Laslo’s automatic from the hardwood floor.

  Mellors darted out of his chair to check Dr. Laslo’s pulse.

  Laslo’s chest was bleeding, Mellors could see. Laslo started to cough up blood as his punctured lung made ragged sucking sounds that sent goose bumps down Mellors’s spine. A field operative in the black ops arm of the CIA, Mellors knew enough about wounds to know what that sound meant. Death by drowning. Drowning in your own blood, no less. Not a good way to go—if there was such a thing. Drowning was one of the nastier means of dying.

  “He’s still alive,” Mellors told the others, his eyes wide.

  Cole punched in 9-1-1 on the phone on the table.

  “We have a medical emergency in the Situation Room,” he said into the handset. “We need paramedics.”

  Byrd reached toward the football.

  “Wait till the paramedics take the doctor away,” said Cole. “I don’t want anyone else in the room other than my administration when you confirm the order.”

  Byrd nodded.

  Cole scanned the concerned faces around the table. “What we’re about to do here doesn’t leave this room. Is that understood?”

  “Clear as crystal,” said Byrd. “It’s all about national security.”

  “When public safety and the security of this country are at stake, all bets are off. Nothing of what we do here today goes beyond these walls.”

  There was a commotion at the door.

  Mellors flung the door open.

  Two paramedics bustled into the room, wheeling a gurney.

  Cole motioned toward the fallen Dr. Laslo.

  The second they spotted Dr. Laslo, the paramedics trundled the gurney toward him.

  The first paramedic stanched Laslo’s chest wound. “He’ll drown in his own blood if we don’t get him to surgery on the double.”

  “Do whatever you have to,” said Cole.

  The paramedics lifted Dr. Laslo onto the gurney swiftly yet gently and barreled out of the room, the gurney between them.

  “Are you sure that was a good idea, Mr. President?” said Byrd after they left.

  Mellors closed the door after the paramedics and took his seat.

  “What do you mean?” said Cole.

  “If he lives, he’s gonna blab all over the place about everything that just happened here,” said Byrd. “I hate to say this, but he’s our enemy.”

  Cole did a double take.

  Face grave, he mulled Byrd’s words. He massaged the back of his neck, trying to figure out his next move.

  “Who’s he gonna talk to?” said Slocum.

  “Everybody, the way I see it,” said Byrd. “You saw how he cracked up. He hates us. He’ll do everything he can to torpedo us if he lives.”

  “I doubt it. I think he was just trying to clear his conscience by trying to stop you. I don’t think it goes beyond that.”

  “Can we take that chance? We’re playing for all the marbles here. He has the knowledge to bring us down, and he has the motive to do it.”

  “If you’re saying he’s gonna lead a coup against us, I don’t buy it.”

  “We know he hates what we’re about to do. We can’t risk his talking. He’ll tell everyone he tried to stop us from blowing up the country. He’ll paint himself as a messiah.”

  Mellors had been listening in silence. Now he felt compelled to speak.

  “What difference does it make what he does?” he said. “When we get through nuking the country, everybody will be dead. There’ll be nobody left alive for Laslo to talk to.”

  “What about the people in this bunker?” said Byrd. “They’re the ones we have to worry about, and they’re the ones Laslo will talk to.”

  Byrd splayed his large hands out on the tabletop and leaned toward Mellors.

  “And?” said Mellors.

  “And they might stage a putsch. Don’t act naïve, man.”

  Mellors shook his head. “You sound paranoid.”

  “As my late daddy used to tell me, paranoia is the best defense.” Byrd turned to the president. “I can take care of this, Mr. President.”

  Cole nodded. “Go check on Dr. Laslo.”

  Mellors didn’t like the sound of it. He figured Cole’s words carried a subtext that indicated the end for Laslo. It reminded Mellors of when Slocum had told him to “take care of” Halverson. It was a matter of reading between the lines to figure out what your orders actually meant, decided Mellors. In his experience in politics, nothing was ever sp
elled out. Leaders always needed jockeying room for plausible deniability in case of blowback.

  “Yes, sir,” said Byrd and strode out of the room.

  CHAPTER 62

  Nevada

  A bluebottle was flying around Chogan’s head in the hot bus. He swatted at the fly to keep it away from his sweaty face.

  “Wherever we’re going, I hope we get there pretty soon,” he said, screwing up his face as the bus juddered through another rut in the desert ground.

  “When we get there, it’ll all be over for us,” said Meers, who was feeling carsick from all the jolts and shudders of the bouncing bus.

  Chogan peered out one of the grime-streaked windows on his right through the quivering thermals at the silhouettes of buildings in the distance. “That looks like a city over there. What’s that city?”

  Meers knew what it was the moment he clapped eyes on the tallest building. He groaned.

  “What’s wrong?” said Chogan.

  “That’s Las Vegas.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s the Stratosphere Restaurant. It’s the tallest building around these parts. You can’t miss it.”

  “What are you saying?” said Chogan, flummoxed. “Are you saying we’re driving around in a circle?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  The other passengers were also making out the Vegas skyline. They began stirring in their seats and muttering in confusion.

  The bus hung a right and now made a beeline toward Vegas.

  “Why are we going back?” shouted Chogan.

  Quantrill stood up in the front of the bus and faced the passengers. “Nothing to be concerned about, folks. We’re experiencing mechanical difficulties. We need to take the bus to a garage.”

  “Unreal,” said Chogan. “Why didn’t you have the bus serviced before we left?”

  “Don’t worry about it. What’s the rush?”

  The passengers settled down.

  “Why don’t we return to the road?” said Chogan. “We could make better time driving on asphalt.”

  “It would take too long to get back there.”

  “You just said there wasn’t any rush.”

  Quantrill eyed Chogan with annoyance. “The bus might not make it that far before it breaks down. We’re taking the shortest route.”

  “What airhead planned this trip?”

  “The last thing we want to do is to break down in the middle of the desert,” said Quantrill, fed up with Chogan’s gripes. “The walking dead forage around here.”

  “I wish I never left Vegas.”

  “Get ahold of yourself. You’re a winner and you’ll get your vacation. You just have to be patient.”

  Quantrill sat down.

  Through the window Meers spotted increasing numbers of the walking dead wandering around the desert. They seemed to be attracted to the noisy bus.

  “We got company,” he said.

  “I want a refund,” muttered Chogan, taking stock of the ghouls.

  “Pipe down,” said a neighboring passenger, turning around to berate Chogan. “You worry too much.”

  “What’s wrong with this bus anyway?” Chogan yelled at Quantrill. “It seems to be running OK to me, except for its lousy shocks.”

  It was Kwang-Sun who turned around toward Chogan and said, “How are we supposed to know what’s wrong till we have it inspected?”

  The bus drew to a halt.

  “OK, party’s over,” said Quantrill.

  Dumfounded, Chogan and Meers stared at her.

  CHAPTER 63

  Chogan had no idea what was going on. He gawked at several soldiers that were clambering out of the bus.

  Out the window he saw frayed lengths of rope scattered on the ground. He didn’t know what to make of them. Half-buried under the sand, they looked like they had been there awhile.

  Quantrill stood up in the front of the bus. Kwang-Sun and half a dozen soldiers stood beside her, their M4 carbines leveled at the passengers.

  “You’re gonna come up here one at a time,” Quantrill told the consternated passengers.

  “What’s this all about?” a middle-aged passenger with a grizzled goatee and a receding hairline said apprehensively.

  Quantrill motioned to the thirtysomething blonde who was sitting nearest her. “You first.”

  “I don’t understand,” said the blonde, her voice quavering.

  “Stand up and come over here. What’s so hard to understand about that?”

  “But why?”

  “Get up and get over here or I’ll drag you over here.”

  The blonde stood up tentatively.

  Quantrill strode over to her, snatched the blonde’s wrist, and dragged her up front to Kwang-Sun.

  Kwang-Sun was holding a roll of grey duct tape. He cut off a length of tape with scissors and stuck it over the blonde’s mouth.

  The blonde struggled to break away from Quantrill.

  Kwang-Sun cut off another length of duct tape and wound it around the blonde’s wrists, fastening them together behind her back. Then he shoved her roughly down the steps out of the bus. She stumbled and all but fell on her face in the desert. A soldier was waiting there to grab her.

  One of the soldiers waiting outside held a coil of rope in his hands. He threaded one end of the rope between the blonde’s bound wrists.

  Another soldier approached the blonde with a length of rope and tied it around her knees.

  Several of the women in the bus commenced screaming when they saw what the soldiers were doing to the blonde.

  Kwang-Sun strutted down the bus’s aisle with strips of duct tape adhered to his forearm and dangling from it. Every time he reached a screaming woman he tore one of the strips from his arm and taped the woman’s mouth shut.

  “Everybody shut up!” he said, his voice approaching a skirl.

  He finished taping the screaming women’s mouths.

  Meanwhile, another soldier was taping the mouths and wrists of passengers as they filed reluctantly toward the head of the bus.

  “I have to pee,” said a teenage brunette with a pageboy cut.

  “Shut up,” said Kwang-Sun and taped her mouth shut. “You can go in the dirt.”

  “I told you we’re screwed,” Meers told Chogan, gripping the seat-back in front of him, his clenched hands turning white.

  “I can’t get my heard around this,” said Chogan. “Are they holding us hostage? Who are they gonna collect the ransom from?” He shook his head. “It makes no sense.”

  “They don’t want a ransom. They want to kill us, I bet.”

  “Why? If they’re gonna kill us, why go to the trouble of tying us up first?”

  “They don’t want us to run away.”

  “Where are we gonna run? There’s nowhere to hide in the desert.”

  “We have to get out of here.”

  Chogan craned his neck around and scoped out the rear of the bus. As he had expected, there was an emergency exit in the rear.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Flinging away his crutch he bolted for the emergency exit despite the pain in his wounded leg. Meers got up, shoved off from the seat-back, and frantically followed suit.

  Chogan crashed every ounce of his 250 pounds into the rear door, bursting it open, lunging outside, and tumbling into the desert. He scrambled to his feet.

  “Stop!” hollered Kwang-Sun.

  Meers leapt after Chogan.

  Kwang-Sun bucketed down the aisle to the open rear door. In the doorway he fired a shot to the right of Chogan. A cloud of dust puffed up from the dirt near Chogan’s foot as the bullet burrowed into the ground.

  “Are you gonna kill me?” said Chogan.

  “If I have to,” said Kwang-Sun.

  Chogan cut his eyes toward the passengers standing roped together near the front of the bus. “I think you need us alive for some reason.”

  “I’m warning you I’ll kill you if I have to,” sa
id Kwang-Sun, his M4 trained on Chogan.

  “I don’t think you will,” said Chogan and shot into the desert.

  Kwang-Sun cursed. He slung his carbine over his shoulder, bounded out of the rear of the bus, and tore off after him.

  Chogan was in no shape to run. His wounded leg was killing him. Pain shot up his leg every time he took another stride, cutting down his pace. However, fear was a great motivator. Fueled by adrenaline, Chogan tried to shrug off the pain and run faster.

  It worked for a while. He managed to stay ahead of Kwang-Sun. But only for so long.

  Chogan’s wounded leg started to bleed again.

  He had to slow down.

  Kwang-Sun tackled him from behind, hurling him to the dirt, and jumped onto Chogan’s back, pinning him to the ground. Sitting on Chogan’s back, gasping for breath, Kwang-Sun unspooled his roll of duct tape, cut off a strip, and wound it around Chogan’s wrists, binding them together.

  Kwang-Sun got to his feet.

  Chogan rolled onto his back, grimacing in pain, chest heaving, lungs sucking for air. He inhaled dust and coughed.

  At the rear of the bus a soldier rounded up Meers, who had tried to flee but had halted in his tracks when the soldier had fired a warning shot over Meers’s head.

  “Get up,” Kwang-Sun told Chogan.

  Chogan kept replenishing his lungs, eyes popping.

  Kwang-Sun kicked Chogan in the slats.

  Chogan winced and groaned.

  “I don’t have all day,” said Kwang-Sun, looming over Chogan, eclipsing the sun.

  Chogan sneered at Kwang-Sun. “Why don’t you kill me?”

  “You’re no good to me dead.”

  “Then why should I get up?”

  Kwang-Sun reared back his foot and kicked Chogan in the ribs again. “I can make your life a living hell.”

  Chogan winced in pain. He decided to stand up. Now that he had regained his breath, he felt he could manage to get to his feet. It wasn’t easy with his hands bound and a wounded leg that was throbbing in pain. First he got to his knees. Then he tried to straighten one of his legs. He all but fell on his face. He contrived to hop to his feet before falling over.

  The strain he exerted on his injured leg while springing to his feet increased the pain in his wound. He tripped on a clump of weed on the ground and pitched forward but regained his balance before taking a header.