Exit Zero (Book 2): Nuke Jersey

by Neil A. Cohen

“Safe, or dead? Christ, Max really is father of the year.” Daniel scoffed. “No wonder Ivan dug a hole in the ground to live in.” Daniel leaned back and relaxed, as he knew this was going to be a simple tracking job. He had moonlighted as a bounty hunter before to make extra money. It was a job he was comfortable with.

  Daniel continued: “Do you have any leads on his whereabouts. Last I saw him; he was hunkered down in that house out in Morristown.”

  “He torched that place,” Patrick said, shaking his head. “Who knows where he is now. Maybe holed up in another one of his custom bunkers, or he’s been eaten and is being digested in an infected person’s stomach. Or, knowing him, he could be in this very building in the room next door. But what we do know is that he hasn’t gotten out of New Jersey since the quarantine. So, if he is alive, he is here. He is hiding, he is pissed, and he is dangerous. Max is not going to rest till he knows where he is.”

  “Well, why don’t you send some of these dogs out to hunt him?” Daniel said, motioning to 7322, who was still standing a few feet behind, still at parade rest.

  “We need this done quick. You know Ivan and he trusts you. The situation in Jersey is pretty fragile. We’re keeping it together the best we can, and we’re trying to stop it from spreading outside our region.”

  Daniel crossed his arms. “So if Max is running the show here, what the hell do you do as president?”

  “I am the president, Daniel. That is the chain of command, and no matter how this came about, I am the rightful and sworn leader of this country right now. What am I doing? I’ve been on the phone with world leaders for the past 48 hours. I spoke to the goddamn Vatican twice. They believe this is the sign of end times. I had to explain to them that this is being resolved and it’s a viral outbreak, no different than Ebola. All I need is the Pope going out there and announcing the apocalypse and then I have a Jonestown massacre on a global level.”

  Talk about drinking the Kool-Aid, Daniel thought.

  “Meanwhile,” Patrick said, “I have governors asking what I’m going to do to protect their states and to stop this outbreak from spreading, from crossing state borders. I have thousands of people wanting to flee New Jersey, and almost as many others outside that are demanding entry back in. So, Danny boy, please, can I ask you to take one thing off my plate? Please go get Ivan, and if he is alive, please keep him that way. Could you do that for me?” Patrick smiled, a real smile this time. “As your Commander in Chief.”

  Daniel nodded. “You got it, chief.”

  “Thank you. One last thing: the old man wants to see you, give you a send-off. 7322 will take you to his office.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The Sullivan family resembled a micro-universe, a cluster of planets, each trapped in the gravitational pull of the others. They could not escape; the gravity was too strong, no matter how hard they strained against its invisible bonds. The siblings—three brothers and one sister—were constantly at war with each other. Allegiances between them shifted—allies today could be combatants tomorrow. But, still, they always were within each other’s orbit. Even when one brother would declare his absolute hatred for and permanent dismissal of the rest of the family, you could ask him at any given time what each of the other siblings was up to and he would instinctively know. They were always in each other’s personal affairs.

  They had worked out unique communication protocol. If Sibling A was not talking to Sibling B, they knew they could get a message to that sibling by sharing what they wanted to say with either Sibling C or Sibling D. This type of subterfuge became the main source of interpersonal communication between them.

  Even when their sainted, long-suffering mother died, the bond was not broken. It had been Gerald who stepped in and became the center of the twisted Sullivan universe. Once order was restored, their life, and fights, and forgiveness, and more fights, continued on.

  Now Gerald was dead, and the bonds seemed to have finally been snapped. Nature abhors a vacuum, and the death of Gerald had created chaos in their universe, sending the planets spiraling off into the abyss. History demonstrates that everything eventually collapses. Buildings, societies, and even the universe, will eventually collapse.

  CHAPTER 16

  Mr. Spencer turned a page in his folder to move on to the next topic of his briefing to Mr. Gold. “As for the confirmed outbreaks, we have just begun the process of infected depopulation, or DEPOP, as it’s referred to. As you are well aware, the most effective way to put them down quickly and permanently is to disembowel them. This is a slow, manual, and rather gory method. Also, the public believes that the infected, including the family members they turn over, are being housed and cared for in the universities and colleges around the state that we seized. We need to ensure that our eradication plans and processes are kept secret. We need the public’s complete support if we are to identify and remove the Skells.

  “The infected need oxygen, but we found that we need to inflict full body immersion in order for suffocation to be complete. An infected individual who has survived for several days, allowing the infection to work its magic on the human body, can actually reach a state where they can exist without a head. Oxygen is being absorbed somehow even when there is no mouth or throat evident. We believe that they have adapted to absorb oxygen through the skin, which allows them to keep moving, even with the head removed. So that leaves us with two effective methods: drowning or foaming.”

  Mr. Spencer turned another page in his binder. He kept talking.

  “Drowning is not a viable option for the large scale disposal effort we need to undertake. We were utilizing the indoor pools at several recreation centers and universities, but the bodies, as are all bodies, prove to be buoyant, and thus, there is no easy way to keep them down long enough to terminate. The only water source large enough to support the sheer volume of infected is to force them into the Atlantic, but this is a nonstarter.

  “First, there would be no way to herd such a large amount of infected into the ocean without the possibility of people seeing the activity. Next, we would need to then fish out all the drowned corpses, some of which could get swept away with the tide. Finally, it would affect seafood source and pollutes the water tables.”

  “You seem to have really thought this through,” Maxwell said with concern.

  “Thank you, sir.” Spencer smiled, not realizing he was being looked at like a psychopath. “So that leaves us with foaming.”

  Maxwell raised an eyebrow. “Foaming?”

  Spencer knew this was going to be a difficult discussion, but he needed to keep it as unemotional and clinical as possible. “Foaming is the most effective and humane way to deal with the poultry population during the avian flu outbreak. We herd the infected individuals into warehouses and fill the facility with water-based foam. The same foam that is used by fire departments for suppression of forest fires can be used very effectively, inexpensively, and humanely to carry out depop. The foam prevents oxygen from reaching the infected host body. The state has a large quantity of it and we have additional shipments coming in from the West Coast. They store silos of the stuff for wildland fires.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Maxwell snapped. “This sounds like something right out of the Third Reich here. Why don’t we just put them into gas chambers?”

  “Sir, in this situation, nothing is off the table. But building gas chambers the size of warehouses would take months. Besides, we have no access to Zyklon B, or any similar kind of chemical. And, even if we did, we would need to have trained hazmat people on staff just to handle it.

  “The foam is biodegradable, so it is not harmful to the environment. Also, we can utilize existing structures. We have warehouses being utilized right now, and more depopulation facilities are being erected as temporary structures in FEMA camps. We funnel the infected into the facilities, fill with foam to a height of seven feet, wait thirty minutes, and then clean the facility out with bulldozers. The remains are considered a Biohazard, so will be disposed of accor
dingly.”

  “Well, at least we’re committing eco-friendly genocide,” Maxwell said with venom.

  Mr. Spencer took a deep breath. “We need to increase the scope and speed of depop. The infected are like walking virus distribution systems. Simple containment of the infected was determined to not be a viable solution, as the infected are just too dangerous. The transmission rate appears to be increasing exponentially and we have not even begun the work on a cure, if any exists. We need to eradicate the virus, meaning removing the transportation and distribution systems of the virus, which means eradicating the people infected.”

  Mr. Spencer waited for a response from Maxwell. Anger, denial, or indignant refusal to accept the circumstances.

  He received no such pushback, so he continued.

  “We need to practice good bio-surveillance and rapidly eliminate new outbreaks as they occur. We are ground zero of what is on the cusp of becoming a national epidemic, perhaps global, if we fail to nip it in the bud. Once you sign this order, we will expand to statewide depopulation and processing of the infected, as will our contractors and facilities we have on standby in other states that currently are, or may soon be, experiencing outbreaks.

  “This plan will not be shared with anyone outside our company and all involved have been vetted to ensure their understanding of the need for secrecy, at least at this point. Not even the president is aware of this program. I know what we have to implement here is difficult to stomach...” Spencer realized what he just said the second he said it, and he hoped that Maxwell did not think he was intentionally making a joke of the whole stomach turning into a brain side effect.

  No such rebuke occurred.

  Mr. Spencer said, “We need to get in front of this and we only have a brief window.” He laid the folder containing the order to move forward in front of Maxwell. He picked up a pen and placed it on top of the document.

  Maxwell moved slowly. He gripped the pen. He had signed many documents during his career. When his company was awarded large contracts from the government worth millions of dollars, Maxwell would make a big show of signing the contract, and would use four or five pricy Waterford pens that would then be handed out to those who made the project or deal possible.

  The pen he held in his hand now was cheap, plastic, and said The Congress Hotel, Cape May, NJ. It was one of thousands of identical pens produced. And it was about to sign a document that would result in the extermination of thousands of Americans.

  Maxwell signed the document and closed the folder.

  Spencer picked up the folder and held it to his chest as if he feared the signer might leap from his seat and rip it away. “Thank you, sir. You have done what is best for the country, perhaps the world. Now, we need to discuss the GRASS issue.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “The domestic situation here in the continental US can best be described as bi-polar,” Mr. Spencer said, his eyes on Maxwell Gold. “While there have only been sporadic outbreaks and unrest around the country, the vast majority of the public shrugged it off. We have not confirmed to the media that Texas has indeed declared secession from the rest of the country, but we have created uncertainty about why we have dispatched the National Guard down there.

  “We have channeled information to selected media sources that the cause of the Skell virus was due to the mass influx of immigrants from South and Central America. We fed them quotes from overwhelmed Department of Homeland Security and Customs and Border Protection personnel stating that due to the sheer number of border crossings, they just could not provide the proper medical screenings. But we fed other sources that it was most likely caused by a bio-terror attack from the Middle East. So as usual, the public does not know what the hell to think.

  “California is the next problem. Much of their unrest is self-inflicted, but then again, when have California’s problems not been self-created. They are the drama queen of the fifty states.” He smiled.

  Maxwell’s face was stone.

  It was a terrible attempt at humor. Spencer had picked the wrong audience.

  He cleared his throat and said, “We have a real situation unfolding with the GRASS movement. I have not had the chance to brief President Callahan on this matter. Perhaps it would be a breach of protocol for me to brief a national security issue with you before I discuss it with him, or perhaps I could brief you two together?”

  Maxwell, clearly irritated, snapped at Mr. Spencer. “Cut the crap, you and I both know who you report to. I will tell you what you will and won’t brief to the president. Patrick is to be told nothing of what we just discussed, such as the false flag cover stories we are floating. This is to never reach his desk. Is that understood?”

  Spencer was sweating. “Yes, sir. Don’t worry, we have so many false stories out there that we have plausible deniability for anything. Everyone with an ego wants to feel like they have the inside scoop, yet every agency is in their own silo, so information is never shared.

  Maxwell glared at Spencer.

  Spencer gave him a nervous smile. “Well, except you, sir. You are completely in the loop of all information.”

  Maxwell discontinued his death glare.

  Spencer continued cautiously. “But in honesty, we don’t need to communicate that much. We have placed like-minded people in key roles. They don’t need to be told what to do, they understand what needs to be done.”

  Maxwell said, “I understand. Now go ahead and tell me about these GRASS assholes.”

  Spencer bent down and pulled a larger folder from his briefcase. “The precursors of the movement can be traced back to two individuals. Ronan Campbell, age 30, raised in a rural area of Hayden, Idaho. Founder of a punk rock band out of San Francisco called Roman Kandle. His shtick is spouting Nazi propaganda disguised as social justice. He hooked up with Majesty Steinman, some spoiled east coast princess who reinvented herself as a radical animal rights activist and militant vegan while attending the University of California at Berkeley. She used social media, as well as her parents’ unlimited funding, to grow a pretty large following under the banner Green Rights Action.

  “Obviously, this guy’s Aryan leaning did not extend below his belt, as Mr. Campbell happily hooked up with Ms. Steinman.

  “Majesty and Ronan are two bad tastes that taste worse together. Web and social media savvy, they grew their flock online. They were accused of, but never proven to have committed, multiple fire bombings of steak house restaurants and fast food joints where beef or chicken was the staple food. They had also vandalized farms, setting animals and poultry free. As their message and movement crystallized, more serious acts of violence followed. Green Rights Action Schutzstaffel became GRASS, and those that came out to jeer their protests were set upon by supporters, beaten, kicked, spit upon, and splattered with animal blood. We believe they received a lot of outside funding and support from foreign anti-American entities who saw them as useful idiots—a means to hurt a common enemy. It was truly astonishing how fast things got out of control, and before anyone knew it, they had multiple footholds in California. Areas became law enforcement no-go zones and within months. The state has fallen pretty much to their control.”

  Maxwell sat back in his chair, moving his jaw back and forth as if he was chewing something over. “I see.” Maxwell saw opportunity.

  CHAPTER 18

  Gary Ragu had a difficult choice. His entire life had been pulled out from under him like a cheap rug. The man he had worked for, served and obeyed, even killed for, was a fraud and a snitch. Big V had turned state’s witness and was working as a rat for the FBI. In fact, his betrayal may have caused this entire zombie outbreak.

  Ragu was faced with the choice between turning rat for Agent Schaffer to ensure the safety of himself and his remaining crew, or turn to the other mob capos and plead his case in the hope that they didn’t kill him on sight. He would have to tell them that he knew nothing of V’s betrayal. Even if he did succeed in earning, or at least buying, his way back into the
mob’s good graces, he and his crew would still be stuck in Jersey. His fate could be to end up being chewed to mush in the stomach of a zombie or cut up into pieces and placed in garbage bags scattered throughout the Meadowlands. Either manner of death, he thought, would be better than life in a federal penitentiary. He would take his chances with the mob capos.

  Ragu had a fighter’s background. One of nine kids born to old school Italian American parents whose parenting skills could have been picked up from Lord of the Flies. Growing up, the brothers had to fight for their parents’ attention, approval, and even for what food was in the house.

  Sunday dinners were at a decibel level that rivaled Newark Airport. Once, it was revealed during a meal that Ragu had lost a fight at school. The father slammed his fists on the table and yelled: “Gary, this better not be true, don’t embarrass me, don’t embarrass me!”

  Later that night, his old man dragged Gary to the other boy’s house to make them fight again.

  He escaped this brood when he was recruited into a more stable, and in some aspects, less violent, family: the Jersey mob. He started out as a street hood, but soon rose the ranks and became Big V’s right hand man. He and V bonded when not long after Big V’s father was whacked, Ragu’s father also was taken out over some drunken words exchanged in a bar. Neither killer was ever identified or apprehended.

  Ragu would go to the mob enclave and plead his case. First, he needed to know where the meeting was being held and he needed someone to bring him in that was a trusted yet neutral party.

  Dominic “Dom” Dispensa was known as a neutral. He was so neutral, and bland, and non-threatening, that even his nickname was dull. He was in the bloodline of once respected mob boss Big Lou Dispensa, Sr., and he was the nephew of the reviled boss Louis Dispensa Jr.