War of the Undead Day 5

by Peter Meredith

  Only Jaimee Lynn was left and she turned cat-quick and caught Thuy standing there, gaping like an idiot.

  The girl grinned. “I cun see you, Doctor Lee,” Jaimee Lynn said in through a wicked grin.

  Thuy took a steadying breath. “I can see you, too, Jaimee Lynn. I like your dress.” The yellow dress was pretty; the head sitting above it was a horror. Especially that triumphant, hungry grin. Thuy did her best to ignore it. “Are you wearing it for your father? I know where he is.”

  A new look crossed her inhuman features. It was desire, but a different sort of desire. This wasn’t about feeding on fresh blood. Thuy was shocked to see that it was a desire for love. It wasn’t by any means a look of pure goodness. No, behind it was a selfish infantile demand to be loved that was twisted by innate cruelty.

  “Where? Where is he?” Jaimee Lynn pressed her black hands to the glass, smearing it with filth. “Please tell me.”

  “The tenth-floor conference room, just to the left of the elevators. He couldn’t be here be-because he, um, he was already given the shot. He didn’t want to throw off the results of our tests.”

  Only a week before, Jaimee Lynn had huge luminous blue eyes, now they were large, black and wet. They reminded Thuy of an insect’s eyes. These insect eyes blinked in surprise. “That’s a lie, Doctor Lee,” she said, breathless, amazed and actually insulted. She stuck her hands on her hips, stamped a filthy bare foot and cried, “That’s a dirty lie and y’all know it.”

  “I suppose it is,” Thuy admitted. “In my defense, being threatened gives one a certain moral leeway in these things. Perhaps if you were to step back so that I didn’t feel as though my life were in jeopardy, we could discuss…”

  “We ain’t discussing nothin,” Jaimee Lynn seethed. “Where’s my daidy? Y’all know where he at. I smelled y’all together. Now tell me!”

  It was then that Katherine Pennock’s fear-filled voice rang loud enough to be heard throughout the third floor. “Thuy, run! Run!”

  Cold dread, cold enough to make her shiver, filled Thuy at the scream. Katherine had shown such consistent bravery that the fear in her voice could only be justified by something truly awful. Had Eng found her? Was it really him? Thuy had the gut feeling that it was. If so, he had to be infected…or he had purposefully infected himself to keep from dying.

  The idea was horrible. Only someone terribly twisted or hell bent on revenge would even consider trying something so disgusting. She wouldn’t put it past Eng. He was that evil, and yet she was sure that this new version of Eng would be far worse. It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to envision him as no longer the geeky wannabe spy. The Com-cells would have transformed him into something far more difficult to handle. He was probably armed and was certainly armored. He would be impervious to pain and nearly indestructible, and worse, he would be far more devious and cunning than Jaimee Lynn.

  And Thuy couldn’t even handle her.

  The little girl snarled as cold fury swept aside the somewhat confusing miasma of “love” that had been wafting through her mind. She didn’t trust Eng or her pack. They were probably all feeding right that second—without her! Forgetting her father for the moment, she launched herself at the door with a piercing shriek.

  Thuy slammed her shoulder against it, barely able to hold it closed. “Jaimee, please. I’m sorry I lied about your father. The truth is we were friends. Your father was…” Gunshots boomed through the building from somewhere above them.

  For some reason, these shots seemed to light a fire in Jaimee Lynn more than the earlier ones had. “Get her!” she screamed at Specialist Hoskins. Why her order would make any difference to Hoskins was lost on Thuy. Wasn’t he already doing everything in his power to eat her? She had thought that was the case and yet his roaring grew in volume and his tendons nearly tore from the constraints of his flesh as he began pulling with the strength of four men. The workstation groaned as the entire wall seemed to be bending towards her.

  “Oh God,” Thuy whispered, backing to the door, unaware that Jaimee Lynn was no longer pushing on it. The first clue that she wasn’t was when a metal stool crashed most of the way through the window to her left.

  “Where’s he at?” Jaimee Lynn screamed as she yanked the stool out and swung again, sending out a blast of tiny glass cubes skittering through the cleanroom. Thuy shied away from the hole only to flinch back again as a section of the ceiling and part of the wall collapsed onto Specialist Hoskins. He was tearing the room apart, and still his maddened strength seemed to be growing—incredibly, the metal strut his arms were chained around began to bend.

  Before Thuy could wrap her head around that, more glass flew over her. Jaimee Lynn was battering her way through the glass window, which was coming down like sheets of ice.

  Thuy was caught between two fires and didn’t know which way to turn. Oddly, this thought gave her an idea. Inches from Hoskins’ cuffed wrists was a fire extinguisher. To get to it, she would have to practically climb into his back pocket. But she was desperate enough to try it even if it meant getting within biting distance of him. The smell coming off of him was rancid. As nasty as the fecal odor was, it was the stench of concentrated urine that made her eyes water. What was worse than both of these was the evil fumes coming from his mouth. There was a decaying graveyard stink rising from within him.

  It made Thuy waver as she stepped closer. She had one chance, and that was to play matador. She showed him her left hand and even let him snap his deadly gnashing teeth within inches of it, and while he did, she undid the strap of the fire extinguisher with her right. She was so close to him that if he turned from her snapping fingers, he would be able to tear out her throat in a second.

  “Git her! Git her!” Jaimee Lynn screamed. But it was too late. Thuy had the fire extinguisher. She pulled the pin and shot a gout of white powdery smoke into the zombie girl’s face. When the cloud cleared, it looked like Jaimee Lynn had been rolled in flour and, except for her huge black beetle eyes glistening from within her alabaster cheeks, her looks had been tremendously improved. She could almost pass for a child once more.

  For one stunned second, Jaimee Lynn just stood there, then she coughed out a great mouthful of powder. She had breathed in enough of the stuff to put out a cub-scout campfire and her body reacted in a purely human manner; she bent over and started hacking up what looked like wet chalk. Her chest heaved and her lungs convulsed and while she was at it, Thuy conked her on the top of the head with the extinguisher, dropping her right in the doorway.

  Thuy considered hitting her again and again until her black brains gushed out onto the white floor, only just then there were more gunshots coming from the floor above them—the shooter seemed to be moving farther away, perhaps heading to the south stairwell. The idea that she might be left among the zombies terrified Thuy. She leapt over Jaimee Lynn and raced down the hallway for the stairs, leaving behind hours worth of work, leaving behind so many possibilities.

  It was all ruined. Almost all the experiments were time sensitive and those that weren’t had other parameters that needed to be babysat: temperatures had to be within in certain ranges, pH values could only be allowed to ride or fall so much and some were even photosensitive; too much light would destroy controlling factors.

  Any shot at a cure went out the window the moment she blazed through the door to the stairwell.

  She stopped on the landing, uncertain which way to turn. Below her was the patter of small feet—many small feet; above her was the sound of someone leaping down the stairs five at a time; and then BOOM!!!! Another gunshot filled the staircase with a tremendous sound. It was huge and wide. Beneath it was a stinging whine as the bullet bounced from wall to wall.

  Thuy blinked in shock as the last fragments of it and bits of fine cement sprayed her harmlessly. Two seconds later, Katherine Pennock landed almost on top of her. “Thuy! We have to…” She had begun pulling Thuy towards the next flight of stairs only to stop when she heard the gang of childre
n heading up towards them.

  “This way,” Katherine cried, yanking Thuy back onto the third floor.

  “We can’t!” Thuy pulled back on the FBI agent. “Jaimee Lynn’s here.” The warning came too late. The zombie girl stood thirty yards down the hall, grinning through the powder; her mouth was a black pit, as dark as her eyes.

  The two women were trapped, at least as far as Thuy saw things. Jaimee Lynn was a wicked creature, overflowing with disease. Katherine had to know it, so it was mystifying to Thuy when the agent charged, racing at the girl in a full sprint. Ten feet before the two collided, Katherine leapt. She didn’t leap to one side or the other as Thuy would have, she leapt full into Jaimee Lynn, striking her with a crushing front kick and laying the girl out.

  “Come on,” Katherine ordered, running on without checking her speed. Thuy ran after her. For a delicate flower, an indoor, lab-grown flower, Thuy was surprisingly fast. Unencumbered by armor and driven by fear, she caught up with Katherine just as Eng burst out onto the floor.

  He shouldered his rifle and fired in one motion, missing high and wide with his first shot. The bullet blasted out a glowing exit sign. Katherine darted under the remains of it a second later and shouldered her way through the doorway to the central stair. Thuy was a step behind, a bare foot and half. Eng’s next shot passed through that small space.

  The passage of the bullet so close to her belly, made Thuy choke on her next breath as she sucked it in sideways, or so it felt.

  Katherine wasn’t waiting for anything. She flew down the stairs like a billygoat and in no time, Thuy was far back, afraid that she would break an ankle if she went any faster. The door opening above her spurred her on, however. It was Eng.

  “It’s going to be your turn next, Doctor Lee,” he called out, his voice shaking as he came down the stairs as fast as he could. When he tripped and fell, his gun went off with another BOOM. A chorus of evil, childish giggles followed the sound of the gunshot.

  Jaimee Lynn’s pack was after them as well. Thuy let out an uncharacteristic curse. “No, it’s a good thing,” Katherine told her. “With them all after us, there’ll be no one guarding the exit. We’re home free.”

  A second later, she banged out into the dark lobby, and a second after that, Thuy banged into her. They weren’t home free. Far from it. The headlights of the battered police cruiser that Eng had driven down from North Highland were still going strong and, in their glare, the two women could see hundreds of zombies. The building was surrounded and Thuy was trapped yet again.

  Chapter 23

  1-10:04 p.m.

  The White House, Washington DC

  The world was flying towards its end and no one seemed to care. The Russians had launched their last missiles and a hundred million people were about to be turned to ash. It was a fucking TV event. The work in the White House stalled as everyone sat glued to the closest screen on hand. Many of the staffers, with bewildered expressions plastered on their faces, watched the blurry satellite feeds of what appeared to be incredibly tiny missiles. It was as if a part of them thought they were watching a movie and could avoid the fate of the world by simply changing the channel.

  Here and there among the bewildered were those who had some sort of clue concerning the reality of the situation. They were pale-faced and haggard; draping themselves weakly on whatever furniture that was nearby. Some of them cried.

  But did they really fucking care?

  Trista Price didn’t think so. The same damn thing was about to happen right here in America, and where was the outrage? Where were the tears for their own people? Where were the moderates crying: Slow down now. Let’s explore other options. Where was the military? Could those overly-aggressive macho men have been cowed so easily and so quickly? Didn’t they see that the President was nothing more than a bit of fluff? That he was basically an average old man with good hair and a polished approach to making speeches? Because that’s all he was.

  “It’s all any of them are,” she griped under her breath, glaring at a pair of senators. Together, the two had been in office for fifty years. Fifty years of wasting taxpayer money, of naming highways after themselves, and becoming multi-multi-millionaires while being paid an upper middle-class salary. For the first time in her life she saw politicians for what they really were: grifters, snake-oil salesmen, parasites who divided the country and fomented hate and then demanded the greatest respect for pointing out the very problems they had created.

  “They’re all useless,” she muttered. “Every one of them.”

  Was she the only one who wanted to stop this? Was she the only one who saw that they still had a chance to win?

  Couldn’t they see the 3rd Infantry Division only slowly giving ground even with bombs falling from the sky on them and not the zombies? Couldn’t they see how the farmers and pipe-fitters and scrounged up inner-city kids were fighting the zombies to a standstill in Massachusetts?

  She wanted to scream: We can still win! Oh, but she couldn’t. No, if she did, she would be arrested. That was the problem…no HE was the problem. The President was making everything worse, if not impossible. Someone had to get rid of him. Trista searched the faces of everyone she came across, looking for someone like her, someone angrier than they were afraid.

  All she saw was fear and weakness. Anyone that had shown even a little strength had been “replaced.” That’s how the staffers put it—Have you seen Bob? Uh, no. He’s been replaced. That was so much better than the truth. No one wanted to think about the idea that he was in the basement getting his balls kicked in because he had authorized a transfer of fuel to FEMA to save a thousand stranded refugees.

  That was going to be Trista soon. Her anger was going to get the best of her and eventually it would show through. Then…poof—Does anyone know where Trista is? No, that Shauna girl is the President’s new assistant.

  Trista’s position had morphed during the day and she was now basically the President’s bitch. His servant. She was whatever he wanted her to be. Currently, she was briefing the remaining staffers, concerning the “Use of Strategic Weapons.” She had volunteered for the job, hoping she’d be able to find a kindred spirit, someone with backbone.

  She started brutally and to the point, hoping to smack some of them awake. “We anticipate very high casualties, numbering in the tens of millions. Those people that do survive will not be able to expect any assistance from the government for some time, as we don’t have the resources available. They’ll have to make it on their own for the foreseeable future.”

  There was no outrage at this. There was merely a bit of muttering and some of the bewildered looks deepened, so that befuddled was the more accurate term to describe them.

  “The attack will happen as soon as possible,” she went on, with a simpleton’s smile on her face. It was the only expression she could manage that wasn’t a perpetual furious grimace. Her face was not well-suited for any expression that didn’t suggest a gentle contentment with her near-perfect life.

  “We’ll start with the submarines. The…” She had to pause to look at her notes, since she had no idea what sort of boats and planes the military had available. “We have eleven Ohio-class submarines within striking distance. These should be able to launch within the hour. Bombers and ICBMs will be next. As you see on the screen, the cities that will be directly attacked are circled in red. Those areas that will be exposed to lethal doses of radiation are shaded in grey.”

  The entire northeast was either red or grey.

  There was stunned silence. The last remaining press official asked, “Are we allowed to put this out?”

  It was a stupid question and Trista’s smile dimmed, a little of her anger peeking out in the process. “The President doesn’t see the need to make anyone’s last minutes any more difficult than they are by causing a panic.”

  “What about family?” the congressional liaison asked. “We should be able to say something to them, right? It’s only fair.”

  Tr
ista gazed on the man hungrily. Was it his mom he wanted to save? His wife? His three kids? It didn’t matter. His family was about to be vaporized, certainly she could count on him to make a stand for their sake. “I’m afraid not. It’ll be treason if anyone leaks any of this.” The man deflated and stared at the floor with such a dazed expression that Trista thought he might start drooling.

  She finished her briefing quickly and cornered the man before he could wander away. “Is it your mom?” she asked. “Are you worried about her?”

  His face sagged all along the edges like a Basset Hound. “No, it’s my brothers and their families. I have…two nephews…and a niece. In Cleveland. Jon just moved there a few weeks ago.” He was crying. The tears dripping down his face were large and perfectly clear. They were a child’s tears and they cut through Trista’s anger and at first, she remembered the sadness she had felt earlier. The tears kept coming and, after a couple of dozen had fallen, her lip curled in disgust. They were useless show-tears.

  “There are missiles even now being aimed at your nieces and nephews,” she said in a low voice, angling her face to see into his. “They are going to die. Do you understand that? Yeah? So, what are you going to do about it?”

  “What can I do?” he asked, looking even more miserable.

  Trista only stared at him, waiting for him to see the obvious solution. When he didn’t, she went purple in the face. She wanted to scream at him and slap him, and make the sort of scene that only a woman could get away with making in public. She wanted to shame him for his weakness. But she couldn’t. No, too many people would see and too many people would talk, and that talk would eventually get back to the President.

  Instead, she let out a long breath, the color draining from her face. “Okay then,” she said. “You have a nice night.” She left him and went to find David Kazakoff. That morning she had considered him the vilest creature on the planet. Now, he was the only person who didn’t seem to be afraid, which made him the only person she felt she could turn to.