Exit Zero (Book 2): Nuke Jersey

by Neil A. Cohen

  There were sporadic reports of outbreaks and attacks outside of New Jersey. Some were unsubstantiated rumors, some were premeditated murders arranged to look like Skell attacks, and some were confirmed Skell infections, most likely caused by infected who had managed to leave New Jersey before it was sealed off from the rest of the world. Some sick-minded individuals empathized with the Skells, and while not infected themselves, saw the infected as a type of grassroots uprising. Some even went out and committed their own atrocities, which were referred to in the media as “Skell Inspired Attacks.”

  Only a few people knew the true series of events that unleashed the Skell apocalypse, for the rest it was still a mystery.

  As for the boys of Holy Family School, they were scattered, battered, and confused.

  Congressman Patrick Callahan, now the sole-surviving elected official of the federal government, was sworn into the presidency at the Congress Hotel located in Cape May, NJ, thus ensuring the continuity of government.

  The new president’s first action was to declare the entire state of New Jersey a disaster area and establish martial law.

  The Skell virus itself was released when lab-grown meat, created from human stem cells, was unintentionally distributed throughout New Jersey. Once the genie was out of the bottle, a shadowy organization pumped the rest of the meat supply out where it could be consumed.

  Few knew that the stem cells used to create the Modified Embolic Animal Tissue came from the now-President Patrick Callahan. Once the infected heard his voice, it was as if they sensed that he was the source, their progenitor, and they entered a trance-like state.

  PCRC used this method to calm the infected and neutralized the zombie hordes in populated areas with deployed Kraken systems. These audio units were large shipping containers, each the size of a freight train car, and referred to as “Kraken” because of their telescoping pole with loudspeakers that rose from the top of the unit. The boxes also contained computer-controlled miniguns, which would pop out and mow down rampaging Skells or humans that were either attempting to flee the state or tamper with the boxes. They were parachuted in during the original outbreak, and more were delivered via PCRC transport trucks and placed in strategic locations.

  Every main artery leading out of the state had received at least two or three of them. Every bridge, tunnel, and highway had containers placed. All the airports as well. Anyone who was in New Jersey prior to the outbreak, was, for now, a prisoner in New Jersey.

  Once the Kraken was activated, it emitted a hum. That hum became so pervasive that it was soon unnoticed by the general public. But, to the infected, the sound mimicked the tone and vocal inflection of President Callahan’s voice. In the immediate area surrounding those boxes, the Skells assembled, drawn to the calming sound, which ceased their crazed flesh eating attacks. They congregated, mesmerized and mollified by the sound, thus allowing the PCRC Containment Teams to round them up into large white trucks for transport to FEMA quarantine camps, where they would be housed until a cure could be found.

  FEMA had established several such camps by taking over the state’s universities and colleges. These camps were heavily guarded by PCRC Security Forces to ensure that the infected did not escape and to protect the infected from angry, frightened citizens who wished to harm or kill these poor unfortunates.

  At least that was what the public was told.

  The initial camps were set up at Princeton University and The College of New Jersey, as their on-site dorm facilities would be used as makeshift hospital wards. Also on campus, large white single story “triage” buildings were erected on the main campus quads for intake and examination of new arrivals.

  Announcements went out via TV, radio, and all social media of the importance of notifying the authorities of your family member, neighbor, friend or coworker showed signs of infection. The message warned that the quarantine camps were their only hope of cure and if Skells remained out in the open, they faced state-sanctioned elimination or vigilante killings.

  A large trucking center called TransWays, which was off the southern portion of the NJ Turnpike, was also taken over by the state for logistics planning. This massive single story building had dozens of bay doors lining each side of the facility, allowing up to one hundred trucks at a time to back up and unload their dangerous cargo.

  As for much of the rural areas of the state, it was still chaotic. The Skells were still running rampant and spreading the virus. Containment Teams and Kraken audio stations were only being deployed to more populous regions and cities. In the non-populous areas, people were on their own, told to stay indoors until their properties could be cleared of Skells by Containment Teams. They were instructed to listen to daily radio updates by Dr. Zed, who provided survival tips and mass Skell movement updates. These announcements were not much different from weather updates prior to a large incoming snowstorm. Information would be shared on where large herds of Skells were located, what direction they were moving towards, and approximate times they would be passing through towns so that residents had enough warning to run their errands and stock up on food and medicine before the Skell storm hit—sometimes, people could be trapped inside for a couple days when the horde was particularly large.

  With the Skells seemingly under control, and PCRC clean up underway, a few hearty citizens even ventured out to walk among the infected, realizing that as long as the creatures were in earshot of the loudspeakers emitting the continuous low hum, they were docile.

  President Callahan was located in his temporary New Jersey version of the Whitehouse. The government had taken over the Congress Hotel in Cape May. Serving alongside Patrick was Maxwell Gold. There were whispers in the hallways that while Patrick occupied the presidency, he was merely a proxy for Maxwell, who was really running the show. Maxwell Gold did not need to be President of the United States, he was president of PCRC, which currently was a more powerful position than the Commander in Chief, at least within the state of New Jersey. While Maxwell had plans to take his NJ security model and deploy it to the rest of the country, for now, he continued to fulfill the same role for Patrick that he had for all of the Holy Family boys over the past several decades: serving as fatherly confidant, advisor, and guardian.

  Patrick was safely entombed within the de-facto garden state White House, solving the problems of a shaken country. He thought of his childhood friends and what they had been through the past week. He had asked for his intelligence team for a report on their locations.

  He knew Daniel Sullivan and Black Malcolm White (BMW) had landed their helicopter and were most likely still nearby. With travel outside of the state impossible, he assumed they were still in the area. He knew Jerry Sullivan was dead, having been killed by agents from some unknown organization. He had heard reports that both Police Detective Sean McGreevy and NJ Mob Boss Virgil “Big V” Ganado were unaccounted for and presumed dead.

  He was aware that Dr. Woodrow Coleman had escaped the PCRC lab prior to its destruction and had shown up at Forward Operating Base Prince, along with a lab scientist named Mohammed Ghazi and night security guard Jack “Smoothie” Jones.

  A PCRC Security Team was dispatched to take over FOB Prince and arrest Colonel Tindall, but found only a few of his men left behind. He had escaped and was followed by a group of soldiers loyal to him.

  Ivan Gold and his wife Marifi had fled their hideout at the former Chadwick Manor. PCRC Security had been dispatched to the site once they learned about it from Patrick Callahan, but when they arrived, they only found a burned out mansion, the remains of Gerald Sullivan, and many other dead and infected around the campus.

  CHAPTER 3

  Daniel Sullivan and Malcom White, AKA Black Malcolm White, AKA, BMW, had hunkered down at The Shore Thing Bar and Grill, just off Cape May’s Beachside Drive. They were joined by about a dozen other souls who were either brave enough or desperate enough for a cocktail to leave their homes and seek refuge in the low-end bar. Most drank their beers and liquor
in silence while staring at the TV monitors suspended from the ceilings above the circular bar. Vacant eyes and slack jaws, staring at the monitors above the bar like it was the last thirty seconds of a tied-score Super Bowl, or the final rose ceremony of The Bachelor, whichever your preference. As Daniel glanced around the bar at the shell-shocked drunks, they did not appear much different from the very zombies they were watching being rounded up on TV.

  News anchors from around the country discussed the Jersey pandemic, the incident in Washington, DC, the presidential transition of power to a young, novice congressman, and when, or if, New Jersey borders would ever be reopened. There was a growing sentiment in the rest of the country that NJ should stay sealed off for good—maybe even wiped off the planet.

  Field journalists were “coming to you live” from the land of the dammed. They reported from military blockades just north of Jersey, displaying heavy weaponry that the National Guard had brought in to ensure no one entered or exited the state alive. Behind those reporters, rowdy crowds chanted and held up signs. Catchy, empty slogans always seemed to follow a national tragedy, such as Give Peace a Chance, Support Our Troops or COEXIST. The only bumper sticker slogan that fit this mess was Shit Happens.

  The front door of The Shore Thing bar swung open, startling the jittery customers. One patron fell backwards off his bar stool. The bartender grabbed his shotgun and pointed it at the door, ready to blow away any incoming Skell. The burst of sunshine that exploded behind the visitor made it difficult to tell friend from foe for a few seconds until everyone’s eyes adjusted.

  “Whoaaah there, barkeep,” said the new guest, “lower your weapon.” A tall, clean cut paramilitary man entered with a confident swagger. Behind him was another man, dressed in the same fatigues, shorter in stature, but with the kind of muscular build that comes from a vial and needle in the ass cheek. This man had his gun drawn in front of him and was ready, if not eager, to shoot anyone he perceived a threat. He looked one sideways glance away from roid rage.

  As the door closed and eyes adjusted, the two visitors became fully visible. By their uniforms, they were PCRC private contractors. The tall one walked over to Daniel. “Mr. Sullivan, would you please accompany me outside, we need to talk.” He said in a polite, professional, and calm tone.

  “I am perfectly comfortable here at the bar. Why don’t you say what you have to say? We can talk over a beer,” Daniel offered. He looked over at the second man. “I’ll order a Cosmo for your date,” he said with a nod to the gunslinger.

  “Fuck you, Sullivan!” was the response from Mr. Cosmo.

  Daniel recognized the voice. It was Bankowski. He and Malcolm had played football against Bankowski in high school. The guy was a miserable prick back then and apparently had not changed. Neither of the two men had any identifying name or rank on their uniforms, just numbers. Tall, calm guy was 7322. The douchebag was 0303.

  Not enough zeros for that loser’s name, Daniel thought.

  “Mr. Sullivan, if you would step outside with us. Please.” The tall man requested again with exceeding politeness and not a sense of threat or attempted intimidation.

  Daniel was unsure why, but this guy did not want to have an issue in the bar, at least not one with witnesses. His demeanor did put Daniel at ease, even though the man’s partner seemed itching for a fight.

  Daniel and BMW stood up and walked out the door, followed by the two PCRC contractors. They were met in the parking lot by eight more contractors. These were PCRC security teams, not containment teams. They were all heavily armed and standing next to two HUMVEEs. Just beyond them, about two dozen Skells had gathered around a shipping container that was still propped up on a trailer hitch. The contractors had towed it with them and then unhitched it in an adjacent parking lot. More zombies were staggering towards the device, drawn to its sound, unaware or uninterested in the human buffet that was mere feet away.

  Daniel recalled seeing dozens of similar containers parachuted in during the initial outbreak. They had been dropped from low altitude aircraft and drifted down like giant steel encased, heavily weaponized, two-ton snowflakes.

  “Mr. Sullivan, we have been asked to escort you to a meeting with President Callahan.” 7322 informed them.

  Daniel smirked. President Callahan. That is going to take some getting used to, he thought. “Please tell Patrick to come join us at the bar. I saved his ass from getting kicked too many times to be summoned,” Daniel responded. “Also, tell Patrick he’s buying. Oh, excuse me, tell Mr. President he’s buying.”

  BMW leaned towards Daniel. “We should go. May be the best way to find out what the hell is going on.”

  “What do you mean we?” 0303 snapped at BMW. “No one has been addressing you, White,” 0303 said with emphasis on Malcolm’s surname

  Malcolm White took a step towards 0303, which caused 0303 to again raise his gun. Malcolm quickly drew his own .45 and Daniel pulled out his Glock.

  All remained frozen.

  “Well, well, looks like we have a Mexican standoff,” 0303 said.

  “Better watch those words, there Bankowski, that term could be considered racially insensitive,” BMW chastised.

  7322 shouted: “Can we cut the school yard bullshit and put the guns away?” He looked over at 0303. “All of you!”

  0303 reluctantly complied and lowered his weapon, as did Daniel and BMW.

  With firearms holstered and calm restored, 7322 continued. “We’re here to pick up Sullivan, not you, Mr. White. But if it will move things along, I am sure it is not a problem for you to come as well.”

  “And what if we don’t?” Daniel questioned, still testing the waters.

  7322 reached into his vest pocket and removed a remote control device. He pointed it at the shipping container. About eighty ragged, skeletal creatures had now surrounded it. He pushed a button on the small remote, which caused the hum from the device to cease. It was only when the hum vanished that Daniel and BMW realized it has been there at all. The sound had just become so common you did not notice or think about it, until it was no more. Like a woman you only realize you love when she leaves you.

  It took mere seconds for the Skells surrounding the device to also realize the hum that attracted them was gone and to snap out of their trance. They began looking around, confused, sniffing the air. One by one, they noticed the men standing outside the bar. Their heads tilted and long lines of drool seeped out of their gaping maws. Their dead eyes widened with desire as they all began moving steadily towards the assembled crew outside The Shore Thing bar entrance. The other PCRC security contractors calmly stepped back inside their armored Humvees and shut the doors, safe inside from the descending group of flesh eaters. Daniel looked over his shoulder and saw the terrified faces of the bar patrons pressed up against the windows, watching what was unfolding. They could see the staggering horde of unwanted guests heading towards the establishment.

  “You can probably fight them off, and maybe one or both of you will get away,” 7322 said. “But your friends in the bar there will be dinner. Your decision.”

  “Okay, okay, shit, I’ll go,” Daniel responded.

  7322 clicked the remote again and the hum resumed. The creatures immediately turned and stared at the contraption. Obviously, there was no rush to round up or exterminate all of the infected if they were being used to keep the civilians compliant and fearful.

  Daniel said, “One condition. After I meet with him, we need fuel for BMW’s chopper.”

  “Man, look what we have here,” 0303 said loudly so the contractors in the vehicles could hear. “A cowardly Irishman and a flying monkey. We must be in the Land of Oz.”

  Daniel and BMW did not need to exchange looks. Both knew what they both were going to do next.

  That was the final straw.

  In a flash, they were both on top of 0303, kicking his ass. BMW leveled him with a right cross and before the idiot realized what was happening, BMW was on top of him, raining down blows. Meanwhile, Danie
l was scoring field goals with the prone man’s balls, kicking him between his flailing legs.

  The other contractors stepped out of their vehicles, but didn’t approach, as nobody wanted to be on the receiving end of this beat down.

  It was a trick that the Sullivan boys had perfected in high school and had taught the rest of their motley crew of friends. Whenever threatened by a group that outnumbered them, they would not try to take on their foes one by one. That was sure to lead to defeat. Instead, all of the boys—Daniel, Gerald, Patrick, Ivan, Sean, Stephen, Virgil, Malcolm—would together jump the biggest guy, or whomever was the main instigator, and pummel him. Leave all the others alone, just dogpile on that one guy who was shooting off his mouth. Nine times out of ten, the rest of the opposing group would either flee or stand there and not jump in. It was typical that a majority of an opposing gang did not really want to fight, that it was just one or two assholes who were pushing them along.

  This was one of those times. These other men were not soldiers who saw a comrade down. They were paid mercenaries, working for Maxwell Gold, and if they were not told to take an action or make a decision, they wouldn’t. They did not give a shit about 0303—there was no brotherhood here, just rent-a-cops.