Lancaster had this horrible habit of clucking his tongue when he was thinking. Foster’s lip curled into a tiny sneer as he listed to the old man’s bad habit.
“I read your report," Lancaster finally said. "There’s a lot of sense in it. If it makes you feel any better, I threw in some support for you at our last briefing. I think in another couple weeks we’ll be able to shift resources. Just need to be a little patient.” Lancaster took a seat at the swiveling chair next to Foster. The old man sipped on his trademark paper cup of cold coffee before putting his feet up on the counter covered in keyboards and controls.
Foster was taken aback by the man’s statement. It was uncharacteristic of the old man to share something. His eyes wandered to a monitor just behind Lancaster that showed a small unit of soldiers moving through an urban area near Charlotte North Carolina. Charlotte was one of the cities tasked to be cleared first. The tremendous amount of military bases in the region made it a good choice. Foster watched as the fire teams moved from door to door, taking cover, providing cover for one another. He laughed to himself as he watched them practice a useless tactic over and over. Zombies don’t have firearms. There’s no point in taking cover from them.
Foster looked away just as one of the soldiers was taken down from behind. A trio of mangled dead walkers had burst out of a small recess in a building, grabbing at him. The rest of the unit fired repeatedly, killing the undead as well as their own. Foster wondered how long it would take for the rest of the undead to swarm to the sounds of their fire.
“They aren’t rotting,” Lancaster said absently.
“What?”
“The dead people. They aren’t rotting. They should’ve started to disintegrate by now. Especially in the heat of the south. But they aren’t. They’re still pretty much the same as when they died. Of course, more and more are dying every day, so it’s hard to track, but DOD has some Onset Day bodies in quarantine, and they’re still fresh. Doesn’t make any sense. Breaks science.”
Foster didn’t know what to do with the information he was just given. It seemed like Lancaster shared it for a specific reason, but he couldn’t fathom why, yet. “What exactly does that mean?”
“In the light of the fact that they haven’t found any bacteria, virus, or germ in the bodies that’s unusual you mean?” Lancaster said, slowly raising his eyes to lock on to Foster’s.
“Yes. In light of that too I suppose.”
“It means there is no scientific cause for any of this. And it also means, these bodies are defying the normal progression of decay for no good reason. It means that with all our best remaining minds at work on trying to find out what's going on, we know no more about what's causing this than the moment it began. It means that there is a far larger power at work than a simple plague, my friend.”
Foster kept Lancaster’s gaze as long as he could, but had to look away. The old man’s eyes were intense, like blue daggers piercing into him. He shivered.
“That seems silly. We just need more time to get to the bottom of this.”
Lancaster looked away, back at the monitor feeding the Charlotte video. Now the entire unit was engulfed by dozens undead, surrounded on every side with no way to escape. The unit’s Lieutenant was calling in air support directly on his position. Lancaster and Foster listened as an Apache flight crew in the air nearby responded. Soon the terrible helicopter would rain down 20mm chain gun fire on the men, tearing the dead and alive apart with impunity.
As the explosive rounds began their awful work, Lancaster stood and pointed a stubby finger at the screen. “Foster, time is one thing I do not think we have a lot of.”
*****
Eight days later Foster sat at the same table, this time alone. The decision had been made the day prior to let non essential personnel go. The younger men that had sat here babysitting the monitors wanted to go home to their families, and Foster had let them do that. The bombing runs had been cut down to just once every three days, and today was one of those days. Foster dreaded the mornings when he knew the planes would take to the air.
Disorganization had taken over the past few days across the country. Rapidly deteriorating local conditions around military bases as well as local commanders making decisions to ensure that their personal commands would survive had slowly eradicated the larger government’s ability to achieve anything substantial. Instead of one voice, one mind, and one goal, it was now a hundred muffled voices crying out, a hundred muddled minds losing track of the world, and more goals than anyone could hope to keep track of.
Foster wasn’t in denial about it though. He’d seen the writing on the wall, and had already taken steps to ensure his nation would survive this. He had his country's best interests in mind. He wasn't the selfish one. The benefit of sending the sergeants away early was that he could make adjustments to the sorties with little to no supervision. Previous checks and balances were already abandoned, and today, as Foster sat in the room alone, if he issued a command directly to the plane, the pilots would take his order immediately. If he wanted an elementary school obliterated, he could make it happen, and no one would be the wiser until the pilots returned home. Even then it was unlikely there would be any repercussions for Foster. There were precious few who he answered to now.
Foster pulled a small notebook out of his shirt pocket. Last night as he avoided the dream of his son once more he’d gone through every major bombing sortie for today. He dredged up new coordinates for every single city being hit, and as he reached out to the first pilot with the new instructions, his instructions, he felt the room chill. The air around him became crisp and dry, as if the air conditioning units had fired up full blast again. They'd been off for weeks to conserve energy. Instantly Foster’s mind dipped back to the image of his Leo on the bed in the upstairs of his house. Fear was the first reaction he had, but then Foster felt vindicated, emboldened. In the dream Foster’s son had asked him to do the right thing, and now that he finally was, the very air around him was showing him that he was following the right path. It was as if his dream was coming true, and his son was watching him, approving of what he was doing.
Foster issued his commands to the pilots and watched his breath materialize in the cold air. He sat back, content at last as the steam disappeared. After today, the cities would be contained, and the rest of the country could have a real chance at making it through this apocalypse.
The first target he instructed his pilots to destroy was the largest bridge exiting Boston. The Lenny P. Zakim Memorial Bridge. The first bomb hit the bridge like a cosmic sledgehammer, smashing any chance of vehicles leaving the city heading to the north. The second bomb that hit ensured that the collapse of the bridge would be imminent. A few more bombs in a few more places, and Beantown would be crossed off the list of dangerous places. As the second bomb’s dust settled in Boston, the first bomb fell in Philadelphia. As the last bombs fell in the city of Independence, the first bombs fell in Albany.
Foster thought of his son and smiled.
From ten feet away Lancaster watched silently from the doorway. He watched as the bombs fell, removing the urban settlements from the nation's equation like a surgeon would remove a series of malignant tumors.
Anyone still alive in the cities were now on their own. Escape would be nearly impossible. He feared for the living left behind on the newly formed islands.
*****
No longer tormented by the cursed memory of the dream, Foster slept like a baby that night.
His son was sitting at the desk chair in his bedroom. “Wow Dad, great job. I knew you could do it,” Leo said to his father, as he looked at his collection of Foster’s handed down baseball cards. Foster knew there would’ve been some value there, if the world hadn’t gone fallen apart.
“Thanks Leo. I just hope when this all pans out I’m not seen as a traitor. I’m a patriot. I want my nation to stand strong for the generations to come,” Foster said the words almost robotically. Even in the dream he felt stif
f, like the words weren’t entirely his own.
“I’m proud to be your son, Dad,” Leo said without looking up.
Foster watched his son shuffle through the cards, lingering on some Baltimore Orioles cards that he remembered were his son's favorites. Something inside him felt strange. Deep down in the place where love and trust began he felt a tiny amount of suspicion and doubt. Something was wrong with Leo, and the father felt it. He asserted his feelings.
“Son, why won’t you look at me?” Foster asked, moving to sit on the bed beside the chair where his boy sat. He looked at the poster of a Tomcat F14 launching off a carrier on the wall above his son's bed. He used to tease Leo that the Tomcat was a Navy plane, and he should've had a poster of an F16 instead.
“No reason Dad. It’s just that since Mom died that day, my feelings have been messed up.” Leo shrugged.
Again the feeling returned. It crept up his spine like a spider under his shirt. Something was off about his son. His flesh and blood. Foster’s skin started to ripple and chill to the same temperature as the room. He felt exposed. He reached out and touched his son firmly on the shoulder. “Look at me Leo. Show me your mother’s eyes.”
Leo stopped moving entirely for moment, then reached over and set the well taken care of cards on the desk. Foster noted how cool Leo’s skin was under his hand, even in the chilled room. It seemed as if the source of the chill was his son. Leo took a deep breath and turned to Foster.
His eyes were blacked over. Not blackened from a punch, but black from corruption, black from the presence of something other. Black from something from within.
Leo's mouth moved. “Hello General Foster,” a voice that was very much not Leo’s said. The voice was invasive, insulting, and judgmental. Foster’s blood thickened and churned in his heart.
“Who the hell are you?” Foster asked the thing that was not his son. He moved away out of instinct, and immediately felt guilty for doing so. That was his son sitting there. He should never flinch away from his own.
“I am not a bad dream. I am the architect of the end. I am the solution to your problems Foster.”
“Bullshit. Where is my son? What have you done with him?” Foster’s fear was slowly being replaced by anger. He leaned in to the thing that was impersonating his baby boy.
“He is dead. I apologize for using the image of your son to get messages to you. I feared you would not be able to listen, and do the right thing without gentle coercion from someone you trusted.”
“Do the right thing? You mean bomb the cities into isolation?”
“Indeed. There were still hundreds of thousands of souls still in those cities. Now they have even less of a chance to survive my work. I have you to thank for a job well done.”
Foster was putting two and two together. Dream or not this was far too vivid and horrible to not be real on some level. Foster swallowed the rising bile and listened as the voice continued droning on, aggravating the very core of his being.
“You’ve done excellent work General. Your son would be proud, do not let my deception remove that fact. You know your son... you know he would approve of your plan. I have come clean to you tonight to ask of you one more thing that would make your son proud. One more task to ensure your legacy among men for all time.”
Irrationally Foster’s ego listened to the strange voice. Deep down inside he knew that the plan he’d put into action was the best plan. He knew it to his core. It was his idea. His thought. His intellect and foresight. The voice, strange and invasive as it had been, spoke to him now. He felt less ill at ease.
Or so he thought.
“Foster you have one more chance with your planes. They’ll be on to you by then. In fact, the one named Lancaster is already aware of your work. In three days your last chance to seal off the cities forever and ensure the survival of your nation will come to you, and you must do the right thing. This is your Thermopylae. The last stand of the patriotic.”
Foster’s mind raced back to the great Greek battle. He knew the seriousness of the association and leaned in to listen to the voice. In his ear the voice now sounded institutional. Resolute and wise like Sun Tzu, or Napoleon Bonaparte. He felt trust in the voice. He felt the need to impress it now. To show it that he was able, capable, and strong.
“What cities do I need to hit? Do I need to bomb more west coast cities? I’ve been thinking that I should hit some of the tertiary target cities. Places like—“
The thing that wasn’t his son cut him off, “Foster when you wake up you will have written down what you need to do. What is most important to remember is that there are many cities that cannot be sealed off. Many cities that have no bridges to bomb, or that have too many exits. These cities require different weapons. Longer lasting weapons.”
“Nuclear?”
“Even you do not have access to those weapons General. What other weapons could your planes drop that would have an effect months and years later?”
Foster thought long and hard about his munitions options. He thought about what weapons were stored at what bases and what he could get loaded without requiring anyone else’s approval. His mind checked down a memorized list of ordnance as if it were a menu at a restaurant. An idea came to him quickly, “What about cluster bombs? We could drop anti-personnel munitions all over those cities. When the dead walk they’ll trip them. That might buy us months in the cities. That’s genius. We don’t need to deal with clearing the munitions for years either. Why didn’t I think of that already?”
“It wasn’t time. Other things needed to be done first. Foster, when this bombing run is completed, you must know that there are some that will come for you. They will accuse you of being a traitor, and worse. Your legacy will be tarnished if they are allowed to slander you. I already have a plan ready for you. Trust in me. Trust in your plan. Trust that you will make Leo and your wife proud. You are a hero. Never forget that.”
Foster nodded, feeling a strange sense of comfort and safety from the blackness in his son’s eyes. The voice was sweet to him. He could feel an odd form of affection growing in him for the thing that he conversed with. He considered that he was perhaps speaking to God. It would explain the good advice, and the gentle trust that he was feeling now. Maybe he was finally finding God at the end of it all?
“I’ll do my best. Hopefully everything works out.”
His son leaned in, a flare of color appearing deep inside the black orbs that had washed over his son’s baby blue eyes. The same eyes his wife had. Leo’s body leaned in and placed a cool, flat palm on Foster’s chest. The palm flared with unnatural warmth and Foster’s heart leapt a few beats. He felt strangely energized by the surreal moment, and the contact with something so powerful. When Leo sat back in his desk chair Foster knew he had been given the strength to persevere. Strength from his son, and strength from the Almighty.
“Be strong Foster. You must do the right thing. For the sake of your nation. For the souls of your son and wife.”
Foster was awake before the words finished processing in his mind. He was sitting up in his bunk, his small tattered notebook in one hand, his dying pen in the other. He’d written down fifteen target cities and the words ‘cluster munitions.’ He smiled.
Foster sat the notebook down and put his hand over the spot on his chest his son had just had his. He took a deep breath, filled himself with conviction, and began to plot how he would follow through on his resolution.
Foster had always wanted his name to go down in history as one of the world’s greatest, and this was his moment.
*****
It took considerable effort on his part to conceal his research over the next few days from the few staff still in the bunker as well as to avoid Lancaster. Foster did some digging into Lancaster to try and squash his paranoia, but found nothing. The man simply didn’t exist. That didn't help his growing anxiety over having the old spook wandering about. When nothing could be found on his perceived nemesis, Foster opted for subterfuge.
>
A few more people were let out of the facility over the next few days, and the day to day affairs of the facility became increasingly disorganized with each tearful, frightened departure. The two a day meals dropped to one a day, then it was MREs delivered, and then it was nothing unless you went to get it yourself out of a darkened closet. Rooms were left unlit, trash began to overflow, and dust began to accumulate. Foster heard word that Lancaster finally left to go to his wife and family. When that news reached him, he knew his final preparations would be enough.
Foster knew enough about the communications gear in the building to be dangerous. He limited the emails, faxes, and calls going in and out of certain offices and sent faux messages to the men and women across the country at the bases still under his control. He explained the new plan to the people he could trust the morning of the first bombing runs after Lancaster's exodus, and sat back in the main control center to orchestrate everything. It was perfect.
As Foster watched the dwindling number of satellite feeds still available to him, his excitement caused his heart to beat heavy. He was sweaty with nervousness, and his breath escaped him every so often. He knew today was the day as he drank from a stale bottle of water, trying to moisten his parched mouth. He didn't even notice that his own body gaunter than ever, and that his veins were raised, and throbbing. He himself had become cancerous in his own way.
“How many planes are in the air today?” A leathery voice that shouldn't have been there asked him. Foster’s heart thumped in response.
Foster rotated quickly in his chair, spinning back to see his enemy Lancaster, his trademark white button down shirt still stained from too many long days and nights in the facility. Foster noticed the spook held a small automatic pistol pointed at the floor casually. The gun reminded him of a James Bond movie. He wondered if Lancaster had a license to kill. If Foster moved, he’d be shot. He steadied the spinning chair with his feet on the floor. "You should be gone. You shouldn't be here. I— I thought you went home to be with your wife and children?"
Cassie (Adrian's Undead Diary Book 8) Page 15