Zombie Apocalypse: The Chad Halverson Series

by Bryan Cassiday

  In his haste, as he was glancing over his shoulder at the creatures in the police station, he bumped into the back of one of the zombies that was cutting through the parking lot toward the stable. Halverson caromed off the creature, stumbled, and all but fell. He recovered his equilibrium in the nick of time and remained on his feet.

  Two creatures plodded after him.

  Halverson slammed the butt of his MP7 into the lead zombie’s poor excuse for a face.

  Stunned, the creature stopped in its tracks. Halverson hadn’t hit it hard enough to dash its brains out. It was a seventysomething zombie with a shock of white hair. Steady streams of drool poured out of the corners of the creature’s gaping mouth. Worms writhed around the creature’s leathery tongue. Halverson thought he was going to be sick.

  Over the shoulder of the creature, Halverson made out more of the walking dead piling into the parking lot from the street. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of two zombies staggering out of the police station’s back door. He knew more creatures would soon follow in their wake.

  He kicked the closest zombie in the chest, sending the creature reeling backward, then bolted for his horse.

  He reached Victoria and Emma, who were waiting for him on their horses. He mounted his horse and trotted through the parking lot, wending his way past the parked cars, Victoria in tow.

  Emma brought up the rear. Her horse had a mind of its own and seemed determined to follow the departing horses without any prodding from her, which was fine with her. She didn’t feel comfortable trying to control the beast.

  Halverson’s horse clip-clopped across the parking lot’s asphalt onto the cement sidewalk. Halverson kept the bay’s gait at a trot. He saw no reason to wear the horse out by breaking into a gallop. The shuffling walking dead couldn’t keep up with them.

  He checked the position of the sun rising in the polished blue sky. A few puffy white clouds floated lazily above him. He would head due east.

  Reins in hand, he guided his horse down the sidewalk, keeping lookout for any of the walking dead ahead of him.

  “Only three thousand more miles to go,” said Victoria behind him.

  “If we can stay alive that long,” he said.

  “And what if everybody’s dead in Washington by the time we get there?”

  “Then we’re screwed.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’ll never make it there anyway.”

  “Every journey begins with the first step.”

  “Didn’t some dead guy say that?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

  President Cole sat at the head of the rectangular conference table in the ad hoc Situation Room flanked by the secretary of defense four-star general Eugene D. Byrd and CIA Director Ernest Slocum. Farther down the table sat the assistant secretary for health (ASH) four-star admiral Dr. Kenneth Laslo in the Public Health Service Commissioned Corps (PHSCC), the director of the Department of Homeland Security Sheila Klauss, the director of the FBI Harold Paris, and, at the end of the table opposite the president, the director of national intelligence Hilda Molson.

  “Are you making any progress with a cure or a vaccine, Dr. Laslo?” asked Cole.

  Dr. Laslo was the oldest one there, pushing seventy. His extensively lined face looked like a roadmap of the California freeway system. Clad in his navy blue admiral’s uniform, he nudged his wire-rim spectacles up the bridge of his nose with his index finger.

  “I just came from our medical lab on the premises,” he said. “We have no idea what we’re dealing with. It’s some kind of mutated H5N1 virus that we’ve never encountered before.”

  Before Dr. Laslo could say another word, Cole cut him off. “In other words, no.”

  Dr. Laslo nodded. “As of right now, that’s correct, but we’re working 24/7 on this virus. We’ll find the cure. Just give us time.”

  “Like you found the cure for cancer,” said Slocum.

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic, Director. We’re doing the best we can.”

  “Director Slocum has a point,” Cole told Dr. Laslo. “The whole country may be wiped out before you come up with a cure. In fact, this zombie virus, or whatever it is, is exterminating the entire world population even as we speak.”

  “We’re doing the best we can, Mr. President.”

  “So if we can’t find the cure for this thing, how are we gonna stop it?” Cole searched the faces at the table. “Anyone got any suggestions?”

  “We blow that shit to hell,” said General Byrd.

  Fifty-five years old, he was dressed in his olive drab army uniform, his broad chest festooned with shiny medals, his square hands folded on the desktop. His chin projected from his face like a wedge of chopped wood.

  “Exactly how do we do that, General, without blowing up the entire population to boot?” asked Slocum.

  “If the population’s infected, they have to die, since there’s no cure for this plague.”

  “So just blow everybody up. That’s your solution?”

  Byrd glared at Slocum from under his rimy thick eyebrows. “Of course not. You’re deliberately misconstruing what I said. We only blow up the infected. If we don’t, they’re gonna continue to infect the rest of the population.”

  “That brings up a good question,” said Cole. “Is this still an airborne disease? I know it started out as one, but is the air still contaminated?”

  “We don’t believe it is anymore,” said Dr. Laslo. “The air outside can probably be breathed without fear of contamination.”

  “Then how is the disease spread?” asked General Byrd.

  “It’s bloodborne now. It can also be spread via bodily fluids.”

  “You said ‘probably,’” said Cole. “Does that mean you’re not sure the disease isn’t in the air?”

  Dr. Laslo fidgeted with his wedding ring. “We’re not a hundred percent sure of anything when it comes to this plague. We do know for a fact that there are people walking around outside who have not become infected.”

  “Maybe they have a natural immunity to the disease,” said Slocum.

  Dr. Laslo raised his eyebrows. “That’s a possibility. We, however, think they weren’t exposed to the virus when it was present in the air and that explains why they haven’t been infected.”

  “So what do we do?” asked Cole, looking at no one in particular.

  An attractive blonde in her early forties, a Princeton graduate, DNI Hilda Molson plucked a package of sugarless “wintermint” Orbit gum from her purse, unwrapped two sticks of the gum, and popped them into her open mouth, eager to hear the responses to Cole’s question.

  “We need to prepare for an enemy invasion,” answered Harold Paris, the six-two middle-aged director of the FBI, who wore his blond hair in a comb-over that did little to hide his bald pate.

  “Why do you say that, Harry?” said Cole.

  “Because that’s when our enemies like to act—when we’re at our weakest point. That’s right now, in case nobody’s noticed.”

  “But our enemies are in as bad a shape as we are,” said Slocum. “They’re infected with plague, too.”

  Paris grimaced and puckered his lips like he was sucking a lemon. He ran his hand down his Hugo Boss charcoal grey suit and smoothed it.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “This is when we have to be on our guard against a sneak attack. Remember Pearl Harbor, gentlemen?” A moment later, he added, “And ladies?”

  “I say we round up all the survivors and place them in shelters,” said DHS director Sheila Klauss, ignoring Paris’s use of the word ladies, which she considered pejorative on account of the tone in which he had uttered it.

  Fiftysomething with dyed unkempt ginger-colored short hair, she looked like she had hastily applied lipstick to her flaking chapped lips just before she had entered the room.

  “How does that get rid of the virus?” said General Byrd.

  “It doesn’t,” said Klauss. “It protects
those of us who haven’t come down with it. We need to focus our concentration on the healthy, uninfected civilians who are still alive.”

  “I disagree. The first thing we need to do is blow this virus to kingdom come, and the only way we can do that is by blowing up the carriers of the disease. Then we can tend to the healthy survivors.”

  “How do we blow up the infected without blowing up the uninfected?” asked Cole.

  “There are plenty of ways. We could use thermite bombs.”

  “Without blowing up the uninfected?” put in Klauss incredulously.

  Byrd ignored her. “We’re all agreed that the corpses of the infected need to be burned, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” said Dr. Laslo. “As with the bubonic plague in the Middle Ages, the infected corpses should be burned to destroy the virus-contaminated cells in the bodies. Unless incinerated, the dead bodies can still spread the disease.”

  “Then why not take out these creature in one fell swoop? Blow ’em up and burn ’em up at the same time. That what I say,” said Byrd, puffing up his cheeks and holding his equine head erect showing off his Dudley Do-Right profile.

  “But we need to cull the uninfected from the infected before we start blowing anybody up,” said Klauss.

  “Otherwise there will be massive collateral damage, General,” said Slocum.

  “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs,” said Byrd.

  “Are you saying it’s OK to kill uninfected citizens?” said Klauss, her voice tight with indignation.

  “That’s the risk we have to take,” said Byrd. “We can’t dillydally, overthinking this. We need to act now to stop this plague dead in its tracks. The longer we sit here with our collective thumbs stuck up our collective asses, the sooner that plague will annihilate every American. Pardon my French,” added Byrd, turning toward Klauss.

  Klauss sat rigid in her seat, her face expressionless. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “You’ll be murdering innocent people if you start blowing everybody up indiscriminately,” she said. “What kind of sense does that make? Blowing everyone up to save everyone. Think what you’re saying, General.”

  “We have to act and act now!” said Byrd, his deep voice rising. “He who hesitates is lost.”

  “We can figure this out,” said Cole. “We’re all intelligent people here.” He opened his arms to indicate all of them. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have risen to such high positions of leadership.”

  “You mean we didn’t get here because we know the right people and went to the right schools?” said Slocum.

  Dr. Laslo chortled. Even Klauss let a giggle escape her lips.

  “This isn’t the time or the place for levity, Ernest,” said Cole.

  “I wasn’t joking,” said Slocum.

  “We’re all smart here,” repeated Cole in a voice that brooked no debate. “That’s how we got here. So we will make the right decision. Correct?”

  “Correct,” said Slocum, trying to curry favor now, not wanting to get on the wrong side of the president.

  “Then let’s figure out what the hell to do.”

  Up to this point, DNI Molson had held her tongue. She decided that now was the time to speak.

  “What about the Internet?” she said. “Is the Internet working?”

  “It is in some parts of the country, but not in others,” said Slocum.

  “Why is that?”

  “A rash of fires across the nation has damaged cell towers as well as landlines.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “When people starting coming down with the plague, nobody was left to put any of the fires out.”

  Cole cleared his throat. “We need to jam the Internet.”

  “How will people contact each other?” said Klauss.

  “We don’t want them to contact each other. The people who know about the plague and the infected are gonna tell everybody else who has access to the Internet.”

  “Isn’t that what we want?”

  “No. It’s not. It will create mass panic. We need to keep this plague out of the news, off the Internet, and off the airwaves. God knows what will happen if people get wind of what’s going on. When people panic, they do crazy things.”

  “The people need to know they have to keep away from the infected. How else can we tell them without the Internet?”

  “In the interests of national security and public safety, the less the people know about this plague the better. Above all else, we want the public to remain calm.”

  “You’re condemning them to contamination, Mr. President. I urge you to rethink your decision.”

  Cole looked irritated. “Is that all you have to say, Sheila?”

  Disinclined to antagonize the president, she said, “Yes, sir.”

  Cole turned to Slocum. “Can you arrange to have the Internet jammed, Ernest?”

  “No problem,” answered Slocum.

  In fact, he had already commenced jamming the Internet after poring over the slathers of misinformation he had found on it some time ago.

  Flabbergasted, Klauss and Dr. Laslo stared straight ahead like victims of shell shock, but said nothing.

  “I’m the president,” Cole told the two of them. “I can’t worry about any individuals. My mission is to save this country. If that means individuals have to be sacrificed, then so be it.”

  “But why jam the Internet?” said Klauss.

  “The bottom line is, the public must not panic. The only thing the Internet will accomplish is to spread panic. Now let’s get cracking,” he added, slapping the desktop.

  “Do I give the order to drop the thermite bombs, Mr. President?” asked General Byrd.

  Cole rubbed his brow with the back of his hand. “I need to take that under advisement.”

  “It’s vital that we act ASAP to stop the spread of the disease.”

  “We may do more damage to the uninfected than to the infected. We have to study other options, before I give that order, General.”

  Byrd looked like he was about to say something, but Cole cut him off with a swipe of his hand and stood up.

  “Meeting adjourned,” said Cole.

  Everybody stood up and headed toward the door.

  “Except you, Ernest,” said Cole.

  CHAPTER 9

  Cole waited for the others to leave the Situation Room before he spoke to Slocum.

  FBI Director Harold Paris paused in the doorway, the doorknob in his hand, and looked annoyed at Cole for not letting him in on Cole’s tête-à-tête with Slocum.

  “That’ll be all, Harry,” said Cole.

  “Are you sure you don’t need me, Mr. President?” said Paris.

  “I’ll let you know when I need you.”

  Grudgingly, Paris closed the door behind him.

  Cole turned to Slocum, who was standing near the table gazing at the HDTV’s flat-panel screen that had the red and orange map of the United States displayed on it.

  “Is there any way our Rotterdam connection can be traced?” asked Cole.

  “No,” answered Slocum.

  “No money trail?”

  Slocum shook his head. “We used slush funds and CIA-owned numbered Swiss bank accounts when we financed the Rotterdam experiments.”

  “Are you and I the only two people who know about our funding of the experiments?” asked Cole.

  Slocum thought about it. “The DNI knows.”

  “Hilda? We can count on her to keep her lips sealed. Is that it?”

  “My deputy director of the National Clandestine Service Scot Mellors knows.”

  “Why?”

  “Why does he know?”

  “Why did you tell him?”

  “He’s in black ops. Our black ops division needs to keep abreast of any kind of superbug that was engineered in case it could be used in germ warfare.”

  “You think we might use this zombie virus against our enemies?” said Cole, wide-eyed.

  “They might u
se it against us. Therefore, we would need a vaccine and a cure.”

  Cole nodded. “Can we trust Mellors not to talk?”

  “I believe so. He’s a fellow Yale man. He went to Yale Law.”

  “Is he a Skull and Bones man?”

  “No. Only you and I are.”

  “A shame. Is he the only other person in the loop?”

  Mellors hung fire, debating whether or not to tell Cole about Steve Coogan, a black ops agent in NCS.

  “Well?” said Cole.

  “Field operative Steve Coogan knew about it.”

  “How did he find out about it?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  “Did I hear you right? You said he knew about it.”

  Slocum faced Cole. “Coogan’s dead.”

  Cole furrowed his brow. “Did he die from the plague?”

  Slocum hesitated then said in a barely audible voice, “Somebody shot him.”

  Cole jacked up his eyebrows. “As in killed him?”

  Slocum nodded but said nothing.

  “Did this happen in the field?”

  “It happened here at Mount Weather.”

  Cole felt even more put-upon. “Did his murder have anything to do with the plague?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

  “It would have been a distraction. You have more important things on your mind to deal with.”

  Also, it would have reflected badly on Slocum, Slocum was thinking but didn’t say. Since he ran the Agency, the blame for anything untoward occurring in the Agency automatically fell on him, he knew.

  Cole nodded. “True enough.” He paused a beat. “Try to find out if Coogan’s murder had anything to do with his knowledge of our involvement in the funding of the Rotterdam experiments.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cole frowned. “It makes no sense. Why would anyone want to kill this agent Coogan?”

  “We haven’t any suspects at this time. Nor do we have a motive.”

  “Does Director Paris know about the murder?”