War of the Undead Day 5

by Peter Meredith

  “Ironic isn’t it,” Cannan said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he watched them squirm. “Pretty much your only chance is if some Air Force pilot disobeys a direct order. Maybe one or two might, but eventually one will cave and then…booooom.” He spread his hands in a mini simulation. “You do have a choice, of course. It’s the same choice I gave my men. If you believe in the correctness of attacking Harrisburg, then I will give you a weapon and allow you the chance to retake the city. Anyone want to try that?”

  Except for the guards, who chortled and whispered to themselves, no one budged or said a word.

  “I didn’t think so,” Cannan said. “There is a second option. You can join me and take up arms against the dead. Come, fight with us. Make a difference. Do some good for a change while you can. It’s either that or sit here and hope your king doesn’t decide to wipe us all out. Those B1s don’t discriminate because of right or wrong.”

  Cannan had little hope that any of them would join and was surprised when Courtney Vertanen raised her hand. “I’ll fight.”

  This didn’t instigate a flood exactly, but half the MPs assigned to Boggs’ security detail joined, as did nine members of his staff. Cannan knew all of them on a first-name basis and at least two had once been genuine soldiers before being softened by too many wine and cheese parties in DC.

  “I didn’t think this was how I was going to go out,” one said, coming to stand on Cannan’s side of the tent.

  “We’re not dead yet, Charlie,” Cannan said, giving him his M4. “Come on. Let’s go do some damage while we still can.”

  Chapter 18

  5:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Beijing, China

  A murky, grey-tinged sun was just making an appearance, rising over the capital when the Russian ambassador, Maxim Bodeski arrived in the Great Hall. He had been there dozens of times and had never seen it so empty or so depressed. The few soldiers or party men he passed wouldn’t look up from the red carpet.

  They’re whipped, Maxim thought to himself. Had it been for any other reason, he would have found it difficult to hide a smirk. For the last fifteen-hundred years, Russians had held a simultaneous view of China. On one hand, they knew without question, that they were vastly superior to the little slant-eyed gnats, while on the other, they feared, deep in their cold hearts, the Mongol, the Golden Horde, the Uyghurs and the Timurids.

  To them, China had always been either a dangerous neighbor or an uncertain and untrustworthy ally, that could turn on them at any moment.

  But what was happening now changed everything. Maxim had seen the footage from the satellites and the spy planes that had been crossing through Chinese airspace without any challenge whatsoever. It was so frightening that no one had bothered to couch what was happening in any of the usual bureaucratic nonsense. The folder he carried was titled simply: Зомби.

  The translation from Cyrillic was as straight-forward as it got, the word meant zombie. Someone’s hokey nightmare had come true.

  There were four others with Maxim; a translator, two high-ranking generals who had been flown in specifically for the meeting, and a senior member of the Foreign Intelligence Service named Daluvich. The Cyrillic translation for the spy agency was a tongue twister and everyone referred to the Foreign Intelligence Service simply as the CBP; it was the Russian equivalent of the CIA.

  Maxim thought Daluvich might be the coldest, most ruthless person he had ever met. He had such dead eyes, that if he became infected with the zombie virus, Maxim didn’t think that much would change with him.

  When they entered the main chamber, Maxim expected the usual mass of Asians, staring at them in cold dislike, but there were only three men present in a tremendous room that could fit a thousand. He recognized the greying, crumpled man in the middle as the General Secretary; he had aged badly in the last few days.

  The man standing slightly behind him was a translator and thus must have been a spy as well—all Russian translators were spies, so it was always safe to assume that other countries worked the same way.

  He didn’t recognize the last man and cleared his throat lightly, which was the CBP agent’s cue. “He is General Weilei, the new Vice Chairman of the Central Military Commission. The previous vice chairman, Okini was executed for failure to perform.”

  “I dare say,” Maxim replied.

  Their steps echoed in the chamber in a fatalistic manner. It was as if theirs would be the last steps ever to be heard there. This dark note was reinforced when the three Asians bowed deeply to the Russians. Bowing had become rare in China and when it was done, it was usually restricted to a movement of the head and neck. This bow bent the General Secretary nearly in half. What was more, he held the bow for a three-count.

  “Ambassador Bodeski,” he said through the translator. “I am grateful that you would come at such a time as this. Where others flee, you remain steadfast to your duty and should be praised.” Maxim only nodded and the General Secretary went on with his praise for over a minute. Maxim, who was used to this sort of meaningless flowery rhetoric, very nearly let it wash over him, only there was a marked difference this time. The words weren’t just harmless prattle. The General Secretary was being almost servile in his desperation. He was practically flaunting his country’s weakness and playing up the greatness of Russia.

  Maxim was a little shocked when he realized that the General Secretary was on the verge of begging. As much as he liked watching the man squirm and writhe there were zombies pressing north and he was there for a reason. “Why don’t we cut to the chase? How can the Russian people help our friends to the south?”

  “I ask that which cannot be asked.”

  The two generals shared a look and both rocked on their heels in satisfaction. They had been expecting the Chinese to ask for military assistance and the Russians were prepared to bomb the fuck out of them, but they weren’t going to risk a single man on the ground.

  The General Secretary nodded to General Weilei. He was a neat, little man, wearing a uniform stripped of the usual cacophony of ribbons and medals. With shaking hands, he opened a map of China. A large chunk around Shanghai was shaded in black, while a five-hundred mile arc around that was shaded grey. Weilei gestured at the arc. “This is the furthest we’ve found any of the infected. This area and every living thing within it must be destroyed and it must be destroyed irrevocably.”

  “I see,” Maxim replied. “You are asking us to use nuclear weapons against your people. This is a terrible, terrible thing you ask of us.” He made sure to arrange his face into a mask of grave concern even though plans had already been put in place for exactly this. The Russian plan was much more extensive and would have laid waste to forty percent of China.

  “It is terrible, and yet necessary to secure the safety of both our peoples,” Weilei said, with his head bowed. “Decisive action is needed now. Every hour that passes produces more of these creatures and it will not be long before we reach the tipping point where even nuclear weapons will not be enough.”

  Maxim sighed, spreading his hands as if helpless. “You ask too much. We do not possess nearly as many of these sorts of weapons as you suppose, and if we were to use them like this, well, you would leave us vulnerable, unable to defend ourselves. And what do we get in return? We would be looked on as pariahs. The world would shun us and rightly so. The Russian people are a peace-loving people. Our weapons are designed to be deterrents from western aggression, not to be used to commit genocide. Nyet, nyet, sorry. Maybe you should ask the Americans.”

  The General Secretary had already done exactly that, but the Americans were dealing with their own apocalypse and his call had been left unreturned. He assumed that Maxim knew that and was angling for something, and would very likely get it since China was in no state to play hardball.

  “Perhaps if we offered a gift to the Russian people…”

  “We don’t want a gift,” Maxim said, angrily cutting off the interpreter. “We want security fro
m these demons, and even if we use our weapons—all of our weapons, it’s no guarantee. Have you not bombed your own people? And what has it given you? Nothing. We need more than a gift.” He practically spat the word from his thick Slavic lips.

  It was unnatural for the General Secretary to have his arm twisted so blatantly and not be able to do anything about it. “What do you propose?”

  Maxim gave a glance toward the generals and Daluvich; all three nodded, giving their permission for Maxim to make the full demands. “For security reasons only, we will need to take over the province of Xinjiang, to be used as a buffer zone against possible zombie incursions.” Xinjiang was the furthest western province and, in sheer size, it was the largest Chinese province. It was a harsh desert climate that even zombies would find difficult to withstand.

  Even though the request was expected, the General Secretary sighed. “It makes sense, Mister Ambassador. We can draw up a formal…”

  “I’m not done,” Maxim said, raising his voice, slightly. The General Secretary cast an embarrassed look at Weilei, before nodding for Maxim to go on. “We will also need Inner Manchuria as well as Inner Mongolia for the same reasons.” These two areas encompassed both a fifth of China’s population as well as its land mass.

  The General Secretary had been wrong about the Russians trying to rape them. No, this was far worse. The Russians were trying to cripple them for all time.

  And yet, they had no other option. The General Secretary dropped his eyes. “I can’t agree to any more.”

  Maxim hid a smile. “We don’t want more. We only want a formal declaration on your behalf before the first missile is fired.”

  “Give me anything to sign and I will sign it. Give me something to read on television and I will read it,” the General Secretary said abjectly, bending into another longer bow. With his face turned downward, none of the Russians could see the anger boiling across his features. It was gone when he straightened, hidden behind the mask he had perfected. It wasn’t just his anger that was hidden. The knowledge that his revenge was already in motion was buried just as deeply.

  2-5:30 p.m.

  The White House, Washington DC

  The Russian-Chinese treaty was written up and signed with indecent speed, and was set in the harshest of terms. Although the words “slave labor” were not written out per se, it was understood by all parties that the ethnic Chinese populations of the three provinces were to be given zero rights.

  In fact, they were to be taken “possession of” by the Russian government. One line read: All items, objects, resources, technology, existing infrastructure and human persons within the newly created buffer zones are the sole property of the Russian Federation and are hereby legally possessed.

  The Chinese Secretary General looked as though he’d been kicked in the balls as he signed the treaty. On the other hand, Maxim Bodeski could barely contain himself. He was overseeing what might be the greatest day in Russian history. Not only were the Americans imploding, the Chinese had just begged him to reduce their country to a pauper state. And they were going to pay the Russians to do it!

  The minute the signing was completed, Maxim made his call to the Russian President saying, “We have won,” in a greedy whisper. Just like that, the wheels of a completely one-sided nuclear war began to turn.

  On the Chinese side, the Secretary General offered a quick goodbye without either a bow or a handshake. He strode to his inner office which, unlike the Great Hall, was teeming with people.

  General Weilei was first to greet him, standing stiffly, he said, “They’ve begun fueling their rockets. We should remove you to safety, sir. We believe that it’s almost certain they will target us by way of an ‘accident’ in guidance.”

  “One moment,” the Secretary General said, before going to a secure phone. “I have to even the playing field, first.” The phone rang once and was picked up without greeting or acknowledgement. “You may begin,” was all he said before hanging up the phone and leaving as quickly as he arrived.

  Half a world away, the American president, sat with his fingers steepled in front of his face. He had seen the translated broadcast and was frankly jealous. The Russians knew how to play the game. They knew how to get power and how to wield it.

  “And look at me,” he whispered, spreading his soft, manicured hands. “Supposedly the most powerful man in the world and everyone disrespects me at every turn. I’m a laughingstock.” He hated to look at his “big” map. It mocked him.

  The 4th ID was slogging through Kansas, their way impeded by destroyed bridges, and nails scattered across the highways from one end of the state to the other. Missouri, Indiana, and Kentucky had closed their borders in direct violation of his decrees. And something was happening in Ohio, but no one knew what.

  Closer to home, he had just found out that the 3rd ID was staging a mutiny and not only wasn’t attacking, its commanding officer had arrested its political officers. Of course, the President had ordered every unit in the area to attack them and instead of bullets and bombs, he got excuses—the militias were too ill-equipped and too inexperienced to fight frontline troops—the Air Force jets were all loaded down with antipersonnel bombs and couldn’t go into a hostile environment without first suppressing the enemy’s air defenses—the zombie threat was too great and every unit was needed to contain it.

  “Fucking excuses!” he snarled, slamming a fist down on the table. “I don’t hear the fucking Russians making excuses.”

  The Situation Room had been humming along quietly, no one was brave enough to raise their voice and be noticed. Now it went dead silent. “Pathetic,” the President muttered, raking the assembled officers with his gaze. He picked out two of them huddled to the side; one held the “nuclear football.” Since he was in a perfectly fine command center, the “football” wasn’t needed. Still, the great man liked it nearby.

  “You two! I need the plan adapted to take out those fucks. If they want to play, they’re going to find out the hard way who they’re dealing with.”

  “Yes sir,” one said in something of a squeak. It was a little too easy to call the National Military Command Center and make the request. They were getting used to hearing from the White House, since the President had added to Emergency Response Plan #951 every hour that day. #951 called for a nuclear strike on American soil, something that was becoming more and more likely.

  The President was watching the ranking officer closely to make sure his order was carried out when he caught sight of Trista Price standing a few feet away. He had forgotten that he had called for her. “Do we have the VP yet? No? It’s been a fucking hour! Don’t tell me Kazakoff hasn’t been able to break Sheila. Trust me, she doesn’t love Ron that much.”

  “No sir. He’s barely started. He was still with the Attorney General. I mean the ex-Attorney General. And you were right. There has been talk about the 25th Amendment.”

  The President’s eyes glittered in shallow victory. “I knew it! Tell him I want a list of everyone that Jew bastard talked to.”

  “Of course, sir.” She bowed from the shoulders and was about to turn away when he made a secretive gesture for her to come closer.

  “Tell me, what do you think about Kazakoff? I ask because he’s delving into secrets that not everyone is fit to hear. Can he be trusted?”

  She hated him with every ounce of her. The man was a human pit-bull…an abused human pit-bull. The only one who could possibly trust him was its master and even then, there was always a chance he could turn on him and tear his face off. Still, Kazakoff seemed to have a thing for Trista and, crazy as it seemed, it was possible he was her only ally in a building full of turncoats and snitches.

  “Yes, I think so,” she admitted, honestly. “He genuinely thinks you are the only man for the job.”

  “Good, good,” the President said, sitting back and gazing up at the map. “Tell him ‘thank you’ for me. Then get him cracking on Sheila. She’ll cave in no time. Remember, save her face.”r />
  Trista’s throat tried to close itself off. She bowed again just to give herself a moment to collect herself. “Of course, sir,” she managed to say without giving away her revulsion and terror of the man. Holding her head high, she hurried through the low-ceilinged maze to where the CIA was interrogating the President’s suspects. Some of their suspects, that is.

  Over eighty prisoners had been flown in from Boston to face the crimes of insurrection and treason. Another forty had come from the debacle at Harrisburg to face questions of gross incompetence. More than a hundred had been shuttled out of New York, including the governor, who had already been found guilty of malfeasance. It was basically a catch-all term that lumped in such things as lying to the American people, military fraud and collusion.

  These numbers paled in comparison to the number of people who had been imprisoned in the DC area. Anyone who had ever looked cross-eyed at the President had been brought in. It was basically a death sentence even to question what he had been doing as commander in Chief.

  It was why Trista was especially careful to keep her face set neutrally at all times; or almost at all times. Her carefully controlled visage broke when she saw that the Vice President’s family was no longer sitting with the others in the back store room.

  “No, no, no,” she whispered running back along the corridors, peeking into each room until she found Kazakoff with the seven-year-old. The little girl was shaking and crying. Kazakoff was smiling.

  “No, Kaz. This is wrong. At least start with the mom,” Trista hissed, pulling him away from his video equipment.

  He allowed himself to be pulled practically into her weak arms. “I did,” he said, arching an eyebrow at their proximity, but not doing anything about it. Thier noses were only inches apart. “She says she doesn’t know where he is. But I think she’s lying. I’m pretty sure this will get her to tell the truth.”

  Trista could feel her own tears welling in her eyes. She couldn’t look at the girl; she would fall completely to pieces if she did. “Don’t please. It’s not worth it. The Vice President is a nobody. He’s not a danger. It’s all in the President’s…”