by David Achord
“Now this is going to sound a little bit crazy, but I have these dreams and sometimes they come true.”
Melvin nodded somberly and looked at Fred, tacitly asking if I was being serious. Fred didn’t react.
“Yep,” he said. “That does indeed sound crazy; I guess that’s why we seem to get along.”
He nudged the late Lieutenant Morris and spotted a bulge in one of his cargo pockets. He squatted down and opened it. It held a topographic map.
“Damn, I can use this,” Melvin said to himself, and then looked up at me. Standing, he unfolded the map and showed it to us. “Topo map of the area.”
I looked at it and nodded. “Yeah.” I waited as Melvin started alternating between staring at Peggy and the dead lieutenant. After a moment, he refocused.
“Okay, you were saying something about dreams coming true.”
“Yeah, not all of them, but sometimes I’ll have a dream and I seem to know it’s the real deal.”
“Have you had one recently?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Okay. Uh, in your dream, are there a couple of twenty-year-old twin sisters with big titties asking you to ride them like a Shetland pony? I keep having that dream, but it don’t ever come true.”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Oh.” Melvin sounded disappointed. “Well, what’d you dream of?”
“I dreamt Peggy is communicating with other zombies telepathically, and any day now, there’s going to be an attack on Mount Weather.”
Melvin nodded. “We should tell the bosses, I suppose. I do have a question though.” He looked me directly in the eye. “Why’d you come to me first?”
“Because Peggy needs to be killed. She’s putting Mount Weather in danger.”
Melvin gave me another long stare, wondering again if I was bullshitting him. Deciding I was not, he took a look around in the growing darkness and rubbed his face.
“Fellas, I won’t go into the reasons I’ve kept her alive, but I will say this. I’ll know when it’s the right time to kill her.” He stared at the two of us, almost pleadingly.
“Either one of you could sneak out here and kill her while I’m sleeping or doing whatever, but I’m asking you to leave her alone.”
Slim stopped our conversation when he came jogging up. “They said since he used to be one of ours, we’ll use the crematorium in the morning. We’re going to leave him right here for the night.
“Alright,” Melvin said.
“Speaking of which,” he said. “Are you guys going to be out here much longer? I need to lock it down for the night.”
“Let’s get back in,” Fred said.
So, that settled it. My intention was to kill Peggy, but I didn’t. I hoped it wasn’t a decision that’d come back and bite me in the butt.
Chapter 30 – The Assassination
Fred was waiting on me when I emerged from my room. I glanced at my watch and wondered how long he’d been awake.
“Coffee?” I asked. He gave me a nod.
I’d classified his nods now. There was the micro nod. It was his most common reaction. Sometimes, he substituted it for a slight arch of an eyebrow, the right one, never the left one.
Next was the somber nod. He used it only when there was something serious being discussed.
And, finally, there was the death nod. That was the one where whoever he gave it to better be careful.
The nod he gave me was a micro. We both knew breakfast wasn’t ready, but there would be coffee. Burt and Josue usually joined us. Sarah was also an early riser and liked to join the coffee club as well. I’d told Fred she’d be back any day now. He didn’t respond this time, not even with a micro.
Surprisingly, when we walked in, there were other people present. About a dozen. There were never this many people in here this early. I saw Jim talking quietly to a couple of them. His expression was tense. When he saw us, he broke away from them and walked over.
“The president is dead,” he said.
“What?” I implored. “What happened?”
“They found him about thirty minutes ago,” he replied. “Apparently, somebody stabbed him.”
I looked around and saw his cooking crew. All of them were sitting at a table, somberness etched on their faces.
“Does anyone know who did it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “They’re investigating.” He made air quotes when he said investigating. “Every fucking politician in this place is investigating.” His tone was caustic, which was uncharacteristic of him. He got up and fixed us two cups of coffee before sitting back down.
Jim stood there, staring at nothing, seemingly lost in thought.
“Uh, Jim?” I asked. He was broken out of his reverie and looked at me.
“Yes, Zach?”
“With the vice president long dead, aren’t you next in line for succession?”
He chuckled without humor. “Yep, and that probably makes me the number one suspect.” Jim looked at the two of us forlornly. “We’re in for some difficult times, gentlemen.”
Some other people walked in.
“Excuse me,” Jim said and walked off.
“I never kept up with politics a lot,” Fred said. “So explain to me why he’s next in line to be president.”
“Jim was the Speaker of the House. The VP is assumed dead, so he’s next in line.”
“Got it,” Fred replied, saving me from having to explain any further.
Before I could comment on the matter, the intercom system came on. There was a slight amount of feedback before someone started speaking.
“Attention, all Mount Weather personnel. I say again, attention, all Mount Weather personnel, report immediately to the cafeteria. There are no exceptions; all personnel are to report immediately to the cafeteria.”
“That was Secretary Stark,” I said.
“And Stark is the Secretary of Defense,” Fred said.
“Yep,” I replied. “This ought to be interesting.”
The cafeteria began filling quickly. Everyone was talking, and soon it escalated to a very loud din of overlapping chatter. Fred, Burt, Josue, and I sat quietly, listening to everyone else’s conversations. There were a lot of armchair experts and a lot of speculation being thrown back and forth.
Kelly and Janet came in about twenty minutes later, each of them with one of the kids. Kelly’s hair was still wet and freshly combed. I thought it was sexy. I even saw a few men turn their heads when she walked by. Janet’s hair was still damp too, but all I saw when I looked at her was a sour woman with damp hair.
“They’re doing room-to-room searches,” Kelly said as she sat down. “I had barely got the kids dressed when they were at the door and ordered us out. What do you think they’re doing?”
“I would guess they’re looking for evidence, like a knife or bloody clothes,” I said. I doubted anyone here had any law enforcement experience, so they were looking for the obvious. Still, I resented anyone searching our room.
The front doors opened and five people led by Captain Fosswell walked in. After our terse encounter yesterday, I asked around about him. He was the adult son of General Harlan Fosswell. Coincidentally, his name was Harlan Fosswell Junior. Officially, he was the general’s aide. Some people liked him; others thought he was a moron.
He made a show out of putting his hands on his hips and sweeping the room with a severe gaze. When he spotted us, he walked over and made a show of dropping a knife on the table. It was custom made in the Bowie style, about ten inches long. The steel had a beautifully layered design, and I happened to know personally that it was razor sharp.
“Care to explain this?” he demanded.
I made a show of studying it. “It’s a knife,” I said. “It’s used for whittling and stuff.”
“Not you, smartass, him,” he said and pointed a chubby finger at Fred.
“It’s mine,” Fred said in his usual quiet tone.
“It has blood on it.”
&nbs
p; “Thanks for reminding me. I need to clean it.”
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
Fred set his coffee cup down and slowly looked up at the captain.
“You’ll get that disrespectful tone out of your voice when you speak to me, or you’re going to be in a lot of pain in a minute.”
The captain looked incredulous for a moment, but then his expression turned to an arrogant glare. He bent forward slightly so that his face was close to Fred.
“Be advised, old man, when you’re in my house, I’ll speak to you however you…”
He never had a chance to finish his sentence. If you weren’t watching closely, you would’ve never seen Fred’s right hand dart out and jab his fingers into the captain’s throat.
The younger Fosswell grabbed at his throat, emitted a sound like a dying frog, and fell to his knees. Fred wiggled his fingers a little bit, and then reached for his knife. He unsheathed it and turned toward Captain Fosswell, who was now in the fetal position on the floor, grasping his throat and trying desperately to breathe. There was a ripple in the crowd and everyone became quiet. I carefully put a hand out.
“Fred,” I whispered.
Fred cut his eyes at me and I saw something in him I’d never seen before. His eyes were cold, like a killer. It was only there a moment, and then he seemed to calm down. I reached for the knife and put it back in the sheath.
“What’s the meaning of this?” It was General Fosswell. He had come into the cafeteria, saw his son lying on the floor, and purposely walked over.
A soldier with an assault rifle was right behind him. She was a young African American woman, mid-to-late twenties, medium-skinned, athletic, attractive. She looked like she was almost six feet tall, making me think she’d be more at home playing sports rather than soldiering.
Fred stared at the general with cold hard eyes. Before I could say something, Kelly stood and spoke up.
“That soldier was being disrespectful,” she said, pointing at the captain.
“Ma’am, we’re investigating the murder of the president,” General Fosswell declared.
“No, you listen,” she rejoined. “I don’t know why some of you so-called soldiers think you can treat people like lowlifes.” She pointed at Fred. “You don’t know this man, but I do.”
“Oh, do please enlighten us,” some sarcastic ass said from the back of the cafeteria. Kelly was not deterred and stared toward the voice.
“Okay, I will. In the first year of this fiasco, Fred travelled from Tennessee to California and back, through zombie-infested lands, in search of his daughter. That’s about four thousand miles, people. He did it practically by himself. I seriously doubt you could’ve done it, smartass. And it doesn’t end there. Back last September, he was shot through the chest by a sniper.”
She looked pointedly at General Fosswell. “A soldier shot him. So, if some asshole in a uniform treats him disrespectfully and he warns them to back off, they better back off.”
Burt cleared his throat and stared at the general. “There’s something else he did. When he heard his family was up here, he hopped on a horse and rode up. That’s a ride of over six hundred miles. I know every one of you people, and there isn’t a damn one of you that could do something like that.” He stared pointedly at General Fosswell. “Especially any of you soldier boys. He don’t deserve to be talked down to by anyone here.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the cafeteria. Well, with the exception of Captain Fosswell’s coughing. General Fosswell had been staring at Fred, who in turn had sat, staring at nothing, his face a cold, silent mask. There was a hint of the death nod forming, and I hoped nobody did anything stupid. Fosswell stabbed a finger at Fred.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
Fred glanced over at Captain Fosswell, who was sitting on the floor, tenderly rubbing his throat.
“He’ll live,” he said quietly.
The general looked down at the captain and then motioned toward the soldier. She bent down to help Captain Fosswell up.
“Here, let me help you out, Stretch.”
I turned to see who said that. It was Cutter. He was grinning broadly at the soldier as he helped get Captain Fosswell to his feet. If it wasn’t such a tense situation at the moment, I would’ve chuckled, and maybe even given him an encouraging thumbs up.
“Explain,” General Fosswell ordered.
Captain Fosswell pointed a little bit too forcibly at Fred. “We found that knife in his room, it has blood on it,” he croaked. “He murdered President Richmond.”
There was a collective gasp in the crowd followed by nervous murmuring. I stood.
“Fred did not kill the president.” I said it loudly so everyone could here.
General Fosswell looked at me, looked at Fred, and looked at the sheathed knife, which was lying on the table. He held his hand out. I looked at Fred, who gave a micro. I picked it up and handed it to the general. He unsheathed it and inspected it closely.
“It certainly appears to be blood,” he remarked.
“It is,” Fred said. “Human blood, in fact.” He looked at his empty cup of coffee. “Janet, would you mind getting me a fresh cup? I’d get it myself, but one of these soldiers will think I’m trying to escape and do something stupid.”
Janet frowned, but she stood and took his cup.
“Would you care to explain yourself, Fred McCoy?” the general said. His tone was nothing like the younger Captain Fosswell, but it was spoken in a tone from a man who was accustomed to giving orders.
I spoke up. “General.”
The general cut his eyes at me, but when I gestured toward my kids who were staring at us in rapt attention, his expression softened slightly.
“Let’s go to Secretary Stark’s conference room,” he said and looked over at Captain Fosswell a moment. I thought I detected a hint of shame, or maybe disdain
Janet handed both Fred and me a fresh cup. She gave me a look, which I knew all too well. She was tacitly telling me I owed her.
“Thanks,” I said before we followed the general out.
“How are you two related?” Fred asked the general as we walked down the hall.
“He’s my son.”
“He could use a lesson in manners,” Fred said dryly.
The general did not respond and continued walking. When we walked in, the room was full. Raymond was standing beside Seth. They both looked stressed. Raymond waved us in.
“It was Earl,” he said before they had even taken a seat. “It didn’t take much to figure out.”
“How so?” General Fosswell asked.
“He was still in his bloody clothes when we found him hanging from a belt in his closet,” Raymond replied. “The knife was lying on the table, along with a note.” He gestured at Seth and himself.
“We took some pictures to document it, if that even matters, and then locked the room. We were in the middle of discussing what to do next.”
“How’s Sheila?” I asked. General Fosswell looked at me sharply, as if I should not ask questions and instead should keep my mouth shut.
“Physically, okay,” Raymond replied. “Emotionally, a damn mess. We’ve got her in hiding at the moment.” He gestured toward Senator Polacek. “We were on our way to the cafeteria to inform everyone.”
“We won’t keep you,” General Fosswell said and walked over to the conference table. Secretary Stark motioned him to a chair.
Raymond and the senator walked out and closed the door. I’m not sure if we were still needed or not; we’d suddenly seemed to have become invisible. I walked over to a woman standing along the side wall.
“Does anyone know why he did it?” I asked in almost a whisper.
She glanced nervously at the table of people, realized they weren’t paying attention, and leaned closer to me.
“Sheila and the president were having an affair,” she whispered. “Apparently, Earl found out. He made some less than flattering remarks about her i
n his suicide note.”
She said it like everyone knew about the affair but Earl. Hell, I didn’t know about it. I wondered if Kelly did.
Everyone at the table was now engaged in an intense conversation. While I listened, they alternated between discussing who was now in charge to what kind of funeral they were going to have for the president. Stark was fine with cremating both bodies, but a couple of the politicians disagreed. They wanted instead to have a traditional presidential funeral with all of the pomp and protocol.
I probably could have listened to their nonsense for a while, maybe get an idea of who the true leaders were around here, but Fred caught my eye. He made a subtle motion toward the door. Reluctantly, I agreed, and the two of us quietly walked out. I don’t think anyone even saw us leave.
“I’m not so sure I like this place,” he said as we walked back toward the cafeteria.
Chapter 31 – The Vigil
Fred had intentionally skipped dinner the evening before. The recent death of President Richmond had everyone in a titter. Conversations usually began with the lamentations over his death, which lasted for maybe ten seconds before it segued into heated political debates. Fred wanted nothing to do with them.
It had absolutely nothing to do with seeing Sarah, or so he kept telling himself. Zach told him she had been recalled from Fort Detrick. He made a point of working in a garden at the far corner of Weather, but still within eyesight of the front gate.
He saw her when she arrived. She looked tired. Her girlfriend looked tired as well. He waited a full hour, when he was certain they’d be in the cafeteria before walking in. He bumped into Janet in the elevator and told her to tell Zach he was tired and wouldn’t be joining them.
He awoke at a little before four, crawled out of bed, and quietly walked down the hall to the men’s locker room. He started this morning’s ritual by pulling a straight razor out of his toilet kit. He shaved carefully, trying to avoid cutting himself. He was fine with a beard, but when he’d hugged little Macie the other morning, she grimaced at its roughness.
Finishing, he checked his face in the mirror for any missing spots and then looked over his wound. Both the entrance and exit were angry-looking pink puckers of scar tissue. It was a smaller caliber bullet, 5.56 most likely. Anything larger would have killed him straight away. Still, how he escaped death was beyond him, but here he was.