Sergeant Stronko didn’t bother stifling a groan. He’d been talking to some useless militia officer. The ridiculously named Army of Southern New England was rife with them. They were all either voted into their positions by way of popularity polls or were given their ranks by having friends in high places.
“Sorry, sir,” Stronko drawled. “I didn’t see your rank. Could you tell me where Ross might have gone?”
The officer gave a dismissive wave with the back of his hand. “It being so dark and all, I really can’t blame you, sergeant. These things happen all the time, I’ve no doubt. As for Colonel Ross, why I don’t know where he plans on going. Perhaps Canada in the end. Who knows? He did scamper up that road not long ago.”
“Thank you, sir.” Stronko wasn’t much into rolling his eyes, but this situation called for a big roll, which he coupled with a theatrical sigh as he thumbed the radio.
He had just taken a breath when the officer added, “You will of course stay and fight.” It was the first definitive thing he had said. It almost sounded like an order.
“That’ll be up to my CO, sir.”
“Perhaps I should talk to him,” he said, awkwardly climbing up on the tank. He held out his hand for the radio. As the officer, a lieutenant colonel “chatted” with his Marine counterpart, explaining that a retreat would be inevitable without the help of the Marine battalion. “Should I give the order to run away now or fire off a few meaningless shots? You know, as a way of saying something along the lines of We tried, sorry Boston. By the by, the beasts are practically right in front of us and you, as well. I can see them perfectly. What about you?”
Illuminated by the hundreds of fires that Ross had started, the horde couldn’t be missed.
As slow talking as he had been, the officer was quick to go on, “I dare say you can. Perhaps a volley from these great steel creatures of yours would be in order. I know it would do wonders for morale. So many of the men talk about how you aren’t Marines at all, and that you’re just dressed-up MPs, afraid to fight a real enemy. But who listens to rumors, no matter how many times you hear them going up and down the line? Am I right?”
“We are Marines and we…”
“Really? How fantastic. So, you do plan on fighting…eventually. Will it be when we retreat back to Boston or maybe sometime after that? I heard that Marines fight from the shores. Do you also fight as you back up into it? Because it seems to me…”
The Marine CO butted in. “Enough! Get off the net. Let me talk to Sergeant Stronko.” One minute later, the tanks roared out in a rippling broadside that lit the night and shredded hundreds of zombies. There was a cheer from the line, but it was short-lived. The roar of the guns had brought on the next great test as thousands of zombies charged the river.
Ross heard the boom of the guns and smiled. It was exactly the sort of distraction he needed. His battalion had surrounded a middle-school two miles from the front line. Here was the headquarters of the army. It was now guarded by only a hundred MPs, just thirty of whom were on duty.
Instead of swarming in like attacking soldiers, Ross ordered his men to form into units of fifty; he then marched them straight to the school from all directions. In a few places they had to jump a low fence or dart around bushes, but the effect was the same. There seemed to be an endless number of them. Without firing a shot, the MPs gave up and in less than a minute, Ross and his men stormed into the command tent itself.
“Who the hell are you?” a lieutenant general demanded. His hand had strayed to the Beretta he kept holstered at his hip. He barely brushed the butt and as he did, Ross cocked an eyebrow and pivoted his rifle toward the general’s belly.
“I’m the man you were going to execute. Having an execution hanging over one’s head is sorta liberating. It kinda makes me feel like I have nothing to lose. You get me? Like I can do whatever I want. Like I can kill whoever I want.”
The general’s hand slid sway from the gun. Ross practically beamed. “In case anyone doesn’t know who I am, my name is Troy Ross and I’m the new commander of this army and you are all under arrest.”
3-8:58 p.m.
The White House, Washington DC
It didn’t take long for the change in command of the Army of Southern New England to reach the President. As he had been for most of the day, he was sitting at the head of the enormous and, quite frankly, ludicrously long table in the Situation Room.
In front of him was a half-eaten piece of toast and a cup of coffee. This was the only thing he had eaten since four that afternoon when he had snuck away for a hot roast beef sandwich and an arugula salad. He had announced that since so many people were going without food, dinners were no longer going to be served in the Situation Room. In his mind, it was an amazing sacrifice.
“A coup, you say? Well, I can’t say as I’m surprised.” He took a sip of his coffee and set it down without saying more. He only stared at his Secretary of the Army, watching her age. General Renee Smith’s practiced look of studious wisdom that got her to the top of her profession had been replaced by a slagged, wrinkled grey mask.
She had to wonder if this was the last straw for her. The Secretary of the Air Force—Renee couldn’t even remember his name—had been fired earlier that day for being unable to control his pilots. At least he hadn’t been arrested. At one point, the room had been bustling with Cabinet members, administration executives and generals of all sorts. Gradually, many of them snuck away, were fired or managed to say the wrong thing and were arrested.
After this latest fiasco, Renee didn’t think it would be long before they came for her. She didn’t even like looking at the huge TV, hanging over, and dominating the room. It was a map that essentially showed precisely where the army was screwing up. The 3rd ID was in revolt. The 4th ID was held up at the Mississippi River, unable to cross until a mile-long pontoon bridge could be constructed. The 6th Army was straggling out of Texas in complete disarray; its logistics a shocking, unravelable mess with half of everything being stripped from the division and flown north in support of the southern command surrounding Washington DC.
It didn’t end there. Even with the western zombie army centered on the 3rd ID, Pennsylvania was in a state of wild panic and strange fluctuations. Something, no one knew what exactly, was happening in Ohio. Everyone, including government officials, the police and anyone with any sense with a car and a tank of gas had already fled for the nearest border, leaving behind the elderly and the indigent. Satellite photos showed Cincinnati, Columbus and Cleveland in flames.
There were definitely zombies in Indiana. So far, this news was being kept from the press but with Indianapolis surrounded by every swinging dick with a gun waiting for the dam to burst, it wouldn’t be for long.
Among all these disasters, there were a few highlights. Somehow three regiments and a smattering of plaid-covered mountain men were holding the entire northern part of the Zone in up-state New York; a line that stretched for a hundred and forty miles. More amazing still, Long Island had not fallen despite everyone agreeing that it had no chance.
Best of all, the capital wasn’t seriously threatened. Renee didn’t want to think how things would be going if it had.
She smoothed down her uniform, took a breath and nodded. “Yes, sir. As per your orders, the FBI tracked down Ex-Governor Clarren. He was fighting with the Massachusetts National Guard. They moved in to arrest him; however, the PO overseeing the army in that sector decided to make the arrest himself. From the little that’s been reported, there was a delay and during that time, Clarren and some militia men took over the headquarters area, arresting everyone on sight.”
The President sat looking at her, drumming his fingers on the table top. “And? What are they doing now? Have they given us their demands, yet?”
“No, no demands have been given. They aren’t doing anything out of the ordinary just yet.” She held her breath, wondering if he could see through her lie. In actuality, they were doing something out of the ordinary,
they were fighting smart. Every political officer from every unit had been rounded up and arrested. Hoarded ammunition was being properly distributed, and reinforcements were being allocated based on need rather than cowardice.
She would never say this, however. No way. Renee was no idiot. She held her tongue as the President pushed his chair back and went to stand beneath the immense screen. He shocked her by not exploding in outrage.
“Well,” he said, in something of a whisper. “Well, well, well. Clear the room. Where’s the DNI? Trista!” Trista Price had just been stopped at the door, and was waiting to go through the newly installed metal detector; the President’s paranoia was growing at an alarming rate. He no longer trusted much of his own staff. “Forget all that and find the DNI.”
“Excuse me ma’am?” she said to Renee, who was hurrying out, looking green. “Or sir? I’m sorry, I don’t know which is correct. What’s a DNI?”
At first, Renee recoiled from Trista, thinking that she was one of the ghouls in the basement torturing people— torturing her friends and colleagues. Then she saw the frightened, timid look in Trista’s eyes. “It’s the Director of National Intelligence. His name is Newsome, and the last time I saw him he was using the Treaty Room as an office.”
“The Director of Intelligence? Oh, okay, thanks.”
Renee hesitated. The frightening rumor was that the President and the Director of National Intelligence were planning a nuclear strike on US soil. The thought scared her down to her soul and she knew she should say or do something and yet, if she did, and she said the wrong thing to the wrong person…her courage failed her.
“Good luck,” she said, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Why would she need luck? She tried to force a smile onto her lips, only it came out thin and crooked. “I, uh, meant good luck finding him. Newsome is…” Quick? Elusive? Invisible? “He’s just, uh, hard to find.”
Trista wasn’t really listening. She was dealing with her own issues. The torture chambers had been going full tilt since the break of dawn, and she thought she was on the verge of cracking under the strain. Ten minutes before, she had burst into tears while eating a sandwich. There had been no reason for the tears; no specific reason that she could point to. The tears had just come out of the blue, splashing down on her fries. She had cried the whole time while she ate and as soon as she was done, the tears stopped.
It wasn’t right. It was mental and dangerous. And maybe it was why she had been sent to find the Director of National Intelligence. He was the head spy. The mastermind that ran the CIA and the NSA and all the other nefarious little agencies that did terrible things in the name of freedom.
Feeling gutted, Trista made a creditable job of faking a smile. “Thanks,” she said to the general and left, walking with her shoulders back and her head held high. It was the walk of a woman who didn’t have anything to hide. In her mind, it was very important to appear that way.
Although she was looking for a wicked, evil man, who was probably even then coming back from tossing kittens in the Potomac or hosting a Klan rally, she discovered that Newsome looked more like a church deacon being asked to give the homily for the first time. He was old and white, and burped constantly behind a withered, wrinkled hand.
The Treaty Room was full of people Trista’s age. They were all pale and pinched, their eyes red from staring at computer screens without let up. Newsome was going from one to the next, leaning over their shoulders and making a comment or asking a question.
“The President wants to see you in the Situation…”
“Already? Damn it.” He reached into an inner pocket and produced a blue bottle, which he drank from. He bustled Trista from the room, asking her, “What kind of mood is he in?”
“Okay, I guess. I didn’t really talk to him.”
Newsome took another swig from the bottle and then wiped sweat from his forehead. “Good. His moods have been…” He caught himself and gave Trista a quick distrusting look from the corner of his eye. “You’re new. Where are you working?”
“In the basement.”
Although the torture chambers were on the same floor as the Situation Room, Newsome understood. His eyebrows came up slightly. “Sorry,” he said, embarrassed. This stalled any more conversation between the two and they entered the Situation Room in silence. The room itself was just as silent. Only the President remained, staring up at the main screen.
“Let’s see what you have on the Chinese solution,” he said, right away. Newsome nodded, burped behind a hand, and went to one of the keyboards. As he did, Trista hesitated in the doorway. She had come to see the President for a reason, one that seemed extremely foolish just then. He caught her still in the room and his eyes went to slits. “What?”
“I have a question about the Second Lady and her family, sir.” She was surprised how strong her voice was even though the President’s sharp look hadn’t changed a hair. “Once she discovered how duplicitous her husband was, she has fully cooperated and has been our finest witness against him.” She was the only witness against the Vice President; Trista kept that little tidbit to herself.
The President shrugged. “You said you had a question?”
“I would like to release her and her family, under Secret Service ‘protection’ back to their home. We are having serious holding space issues and they can’t possibly give us any more information. They’ve damned the Vice President coming and going. And…and I believe it will send the right message, sir.”
“And that is?”
“That cooperation and uh, patriotism will be rewarded. The Second Lady is a perfect spokeswoman for that.”
A rumble of satisfaction crept up his throat. “Not bad, Trista. I’m glad I kept you around. A great man sometimes needs a soft woman around to mellow him a bit. In fact, stick around for a few minutes. I want to you to hear this. Debbie can wait. Go ahead. Newsome. We’ll start with what’s happening in China.”
“Of course, sir.” He let out another soft burp and pushed the side of his fist into his chest before pointing at the screen. “Here is a thermal view of eastern China. As you can see, the Russians created a thirty-mile wide band of radiation, stretching in an arc from the providence of Guandong, here by the South China Sea, through Hubei and then to Jindan. We have repositioned satellites to monitor this arc. So far, nothing has come out of the radiation belt.”
“And that? Is that the capital?”
Newsome changed the view, bringing the city of Beijing into focus. “Yes, sir. It appears the Russians had their revenge. It also seems that they are fueling a good portion of their medium range land-based missiles.” He changed to a different view that highlighted the Russian missile bases. “As you can see, their long-range sites such as Dombarovsky, where they are testing the Avangard missile, are not active.”
“So Vlad’s not lying.” The President seemed almost disappointed. “Alright, good. What do you think their chance of containing the IPs are?”
“Their own estimates suggest fifty-fifty. I think it’s a lot lower than that. And we can’t discount the fact that at least one of the trains made it into the Ukraine. They say they stopped it, but so far we haven’t been able to trust anything when it comes to the infection.”
Trista was shaking her head in disbelief. “There are zombies in Russia, too? And the Ukraine? Where else are they?”
“As far as we know, that’s it,” Newsome replied.
“And now everyone is begging for our help,” the President said with a great deal of satisfaction. “The same jackasses who were all for banning the bomb now want us to start shooting them off willy-nilly.” At some point, the president seemed to have forgotten that he had carried a brightly drawn sign in a “No-Nuke” march only twenty years before. “We need to know we are safe first before going to Europe’s rescue once again. Put up the layout we’ve been working on.”
Newsome put up a map of America. “As you can see, now that Indiana and Ohio are included, the spread of the infection i
s now beyond our current nuclear capacity. Because of certain measures, we are down to only eleven hundred deployed warheads.” Newsome wasn’t about to mention that it was the President himself who had reduced the stockpile by a third in his first year in office. Some of the same people who had cheered his use of Executive Orders were just starting to turn stiff beneath an inexcusably thin layer of dirt not far from the White House.
“Yes,” Newsome said, going on, “we can bathe the entire northeast in radiation, but our tests suggest that many of the IPs will live through it. Their power to heal is phenomenal, far beyond our own. It’ll take extremely intense radiation to kill them.”
“Meaning what?” the President demanded. He clearly didn’t like any idea that smacked of a half-measure.
“We should do what the Russians did to the Chinese. We seal off the entire northeast. We lay down a triple row of overlapping nuclear explosions and fry everything in a twenty-mile belt running from Baltimore to Cleveland.” He drew a thick line between the two cities; the line also encompassed Pittsburgh, a city without a single case of the infection—the President liked things simple and Newsome wasn’t going to put his neck out for any reason. “I suggest that Akron and Canton be included within the belt to be on the safe side.”
“So be it,” the President agreed, dooming an extra million people to a fiery death. “But no half-measures. I want this stopped in one swoop, so be generous with the bombs.”
It was an odd choice of words and it brought up a tremendous burp from Newsome, whose face twinged in pain. “Excuse me. Sorry. Of course, generous. We’ll be, uh, very generous. W-we’ll have to completely reduce Dayton, Columbus, Cincinnati, and Indianapolis. Maybe even Louisville. To be, uh, generous, and to be on the safe side, we’ll want to start outside in the suburbs and work our way to the center of the cities, that way if we run out of nukes, we’ll have at least sealed off the cities.”
War of the Undead Day 5 Page 32