Zombie Apocalypse: The Chad Halverson Series

by Bryan Cassiday

  But the most remarkable thing about her was her pair of big blue eyes. They seemed to twinkle with—Halverson could not think of the word. Then he seized upon it. They twinkled with avarice. Sort of like a hawk’s eyes when they caught sight of a sparrow.

  In any case, she wasn’t what Halverson was expecting. He wasn’t expecting a woman when he heard the epithet General. Offhand he didn’t know of any female generals.

  Clad in a dark suit, an armed guy pushing forty with a blond crew cut came up behind her. Halverson could tell the guy was armed because of the bulge of the shoulder rig in his suit jacket. He stood about five eleven. He was wearing sunglasses in the dusk.

  A bodyguard? wondered Halverson. The guy was the spitting image of a Secret Service agent with his black-tinted shades.

  Kwang-Sun introduced Halverson, Chogan, Victoria, and Emma to Quantrill, who greeted them with a smile.

  “Our doors are always open to more survivors,” said Quantrill. She turned to the suit and introduced him. “This is Bart McLellan.”

  More than a bodyguard, decided Halverson. A bodyguard wouldn’t rate an introduction.

  McLellan flashed a brief smile, which looked out of place on his stoic countenance.

  “Let’s go inside,” said Quantrill and headed back through the plate-glass doors that led to the lobby.

  They all followed her inside.

  Halverson could not tell where McLellan’s eyes were looking on account of his Ray Bans, but he had a feeling McLellan was checking everyone in Halverson’s group out for weapons. Halverson still had the Glock wedged inside his rear waistband. He decided not to say anything about it. Never volunteer information. It was only a matter of time before somebody saw it, anyway.

  As Halverson followed Quantrill, McLellan pulled up the rear. Halverson found himself swiftly and efficiently disarmed. It was so swift and efficient he barely felt McLellan removing the Glock in one deft movement.

  “You won’t be needing this,” said McLellan.

  McLellan was good, decided Halverson. He reeked of a professional.

  They entered the air-conditioned lobby. A floor-to-ceiling aquarium lined the side of the wall beside the check-in counter. Various species of exotic fish glided through the lighted aquamarine waters, which bubbled with oxygenation.

  “I think you’re gonna like it here,” said Quantrill. “This may be the last refuge of mankind on earth.”

  “California’s gone,” said Halverson. “I can tell you that.”

  “It’s not just California. Survivors are few and far between. The walking dead are everywhere.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “You came to the right place.”

  “We don’t plan on staying.”

  “Why not?” said Quantrill, puzzled.

  “We should stay,” said Emma. “We’re safe here from the creatures.”

  That sounded funny coming from Emma, decided Halverson. She was the only one who had had doubts about coming to Vegas. The comfortable surroundings must have prompted her change in heart.

  “We’re heading back east,” said Halverson.

  “The plague wiped the east out,” said Quantrill. “Where exactly back east are you headed?”

  Halverson decided it wouldn’t be wise to tell her about his plan to head to DC. After all, she was the general of a militia, and militias by definition hated DC, the seat of the federal government.

  “Just east,” he said. “We think it’s safer back east.”

  “It’s not. The east is gone.”

  A fidgety guy pushing fifty stooped and sidled toward Quantrill. Clad in a yellow button-down shirt and dark slacks, he had a receding hairline and a prominent nose. Tufts of white hair sprouted out of the sides of his head, reminding Halverson of Bozo the Clown. The guy pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

  “Yes,” said Quantrill, noticing him. “What is it?”

  “Everyone wants to know if you’re holding the lottery tomorrow night, General?” he asked.

  The guy’s facial tics seemed to be working overtime as he awaited Quantrill’s answer, noted Halverson.

  “Yes, we are,” answered Quantrill.

  The guy became even more squirrelly.

  “Is there anything else?” asked Quantrill.

  “No,” he answered.

  “Then you can go.”

  The guy nipped away.

  Halverson was surprised at how fast the guy departed. Halverson didn’t think the guy could move that fast.

  “You’re having a lottery?” asked Chogan.

  “You better believe it,” answered Quantrill. “After all, this is Vegas. In the end, it’s all about luck.”

  “That guy didn’t seem too happy about your lottery,” said Chogan, watching the guy split past the aquarium.

  Quantrill thought about it. “I guess he doesn’t like his chances.”

  Chogan screwed up his face. “Why’s he so nervous about not winning?”

  “That’s just the way Meers is. You never know—he may win. Luck has a habit of changing.”

  “He really takes it hard, huh?”

  “Some people are like that.”

  “But why worry about not winning a lottery? I know a lot of people that play the lottery. I never met one of them that worried about not winning it.”

  Quantrill shrugged it off. “You don’t know Meers. He’s a worrywart.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Meers. Arnold Meers.”

  “I don’t want to know him.”

  Quantrill took in Halverson, Chogan, Victoria, and Emma. “So, can I count on you folks staying overnight?”

  “Count me in,” said Victoria.

  “Me too,” said Emma. “I need to hit the sack.” She yawned.

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Chogan.

  “I think you’re all gonna want to stay for a long while after you see the setup we have here,” said Quantrill.

  Halverson heard footsteps scurrying toward them. He saw McLellan whirl toward the footfalls and caught a glimpse of the pistol McLellan was carrying in his shoulder rig as McLellan’s jacket swung open. It looked like a Belgian FN 5.7 ensconced in the leather. The handgun fired 5.7 x 28 mm rounds that could penetrate body armor, Halverson knew.

  It was a gun favored by the Secret Service. Which didn’t mean McLellan was a Secret Service agent, but it was interesting to note, decided Halverson. In point of fact, McLellan could have latched onto the gun anywhere during the chaos ginned up by the pandemic. Still, the way McLellan handled himself suggested professional training to the educated observer.

  The footsteps were Meers’s.

  Seeing Meers scamper up to Quantrill, McLellan relaxed.

  Face working with excitement, Meers told her, “The president’s on TV.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Jaw set with determination, Quantrill strode toward a conference room that had a sixty-inch high-definition LCD TV mounted on one of its walls.

  Halverson and his entourage followed in her wake.

  President Cole was speaking on the TV screen.

  “Good news, my fellow Americans,” he said, looking into the camera. “We have found a vaccination and a cure for the plague. Please report to the shelter nearest you to receive your vaccinations and doses of antidote.”

  A list of shelter addresses scrolled across the bottom of the TV screen as he spoke.

  “It’s about time,” said Chogan.

  “Now we can get rid of this plague,” said Victoria.

  “But what about the walking dead?” said Halverson.

  “Won’t the cure work on them?”

  “How could it? They’re already dead.”

  “Maybe it’ll reverse the process.”

  Halverson shook his head. “I don’t see how. If you’re dead, you’re dead. How do you reverse death?”

  “Maybe they would stop walking around, anyway,” said Chogan.

  Halverson shrugged. “But who
’s gonna administer the doses to them?”

  Chogan nodded. “Good point. It would be easier just to shoot them in the head. They’re not gonna line up to take their medicine, that’s for sure.”

  Halverson heard somebody whispering behind him, “When you win the lottery, you never come back.”

  Halverson turned to see Meers standing behind him. “Come back from where?”

  “Nobody knows,” said Meers, keeping his voice low and trying to stay out of sight of Quantrill, who was standing in front of Halverson watching the TV.

  Chogan overheard them. “Maybe they like it so much where they are that they don’t want to come back here.”

  “But absolutely nobody has ever returned after winning the lottery. You would think at least one person might come back if only to say hello.”

  “What are you trying to say?” said Halverson.

  “I’m saying the winners disappear off the grid. Don’t you find that suspicious?”

  “Don’t play then, if you think it’s some kind of scam,” said Chogan.

  Meers heaved a sigh. “If only it was that easy.” He paused. “We have to play. Everybody has to pick a number during the lotteries.”

  “Why worry about it? Haven’t you been watching the TV?” Chogan glanced at the president’s image on the TV screen. “They’ve found a cure for the plague. They’ll have this thing under control in no time and then we can go wherever we want.”

  Quantrill craned her neck around to fix her eyes on Chogan. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re just saying we don’t have to worry about getting the plague after we get our vaccines,” said Chogan.

  “We’ll still have to fight off the walking dead,” said Halverson.

  “But once we’re vaccinated, they can’t infect us.”

  “But they can still kill us and eat us.”

  Losing interest in their conversation Quantrill turned her face back toward the president on TV.

  Halverson followed her lead.

  “We have plenty of vaccine serum,” said Cole. “The CDC has assured us the vaccine is effective. Don’t worry about the serum running out. Everybody will be able to get vaccinated. The sooner you get vaccinated the better. Everything is under control. We are continuing to make headway against the infected, preventing them from spreading over the entire country.”

  “Is one of those shelters near here?” asked Halverson, reading the addresses as they scrolled under the president’s image.

  “Yeah,” answered Quantrill. “No problem.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Emma. “I thought they’d never find a cure for this plague.”

  “We’re nowhere near out of the woods,” said Halverson. “The flesh eaters are still running amok.”

  “You heard the president. When they get their shots, they’ll be cured.”

  “Who’s gonna give ’em shots? Do you think they’re gonna line up at the shelters for shots?”

  Chogan burst out laughing. “I’ll give ’em shots. Just give me an M4. That’s the one sure way to cure those things.”

  “It’s impossible to kill all of them,” said Quantrill. “There are too many of them.”

  “Nothing’s impossible.”

  “Let’s just get the serum and go from there,” said Halverson.

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Chogan. “Then let’s take back our country from the walking dead.”

  “We will never give up,” said President Cole from the TV set, “till the last of the infected are eliminated from our soil. My fellow Americans, stand tall with me and we shall prevail. God bless all of you.”

  When the president concluded his speech with an amiable smile, the strains of “The Star-spangled Banner” resounded over the airwaves.

  CHAPTER 28

  Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

  “Does the vaccine work?” Mellors asked Slocum, as they stood behind the camera in front of the sound stage and watched the president stand up and remove his lavaliere mike.

  “There is no vaccine,” answered Slocum.

  “Then what’s gonna happen when the people find that out? They’re gonna start rioting.”

  “They’ll be injected with something harmless like saline solution at the shelters. Nobody will tell them the vaccine is a sham. How will they ever know?”

  “What’s the point of this charade?” said Mellors in bewilderment.

  “The point is to give the people hope,” said Cole, walking up to them, adjusting his navy blue wool Brooks Brothers jacket.

  “With all due respect, sir, it’s false hope.”

  “It’s all psychological. That’s what leadership is all about. It’s about inspiring the people to keep going.”

  “Even if what you’re telling them is a lie?”

  “But it’s a good lie. There are good lies and bad lies. This is a good one.” Cole hung fire. “Anyway, they’ll never find out the vaccine doesn’t work.”

  Mellors was having trouble believing what he was hearing. As a CIA employee he knew all about realpolitik, but Cole’s blatant lies seemed to be taking the meaning of the term to a whole new level.

  “They’ll find out as soon as they get injected and they become contaminated by one of the infected,” said Mellors.

  “They’ll never be able to prove the vaccine wasn’t any good,” said Slocum. “Later on, we’re gonna let it be known that the vaccine is only 60 percent effective.”

  “Oh, I get it. Then the people who took the vaccine and still got infected had the bad luck to be among the 40 percent.”

  Mellors got it, but he didn’t like it. The fact that they were scamming the public with a bogus vaccine didn’t sit well with him.

  “It’s not really about the vaccine,” said Cole. “It’s about the hope that it inspires in people. The people need something to believe in. Good leaders give them that hope. It doesn’t matter how you give it to them as long as you give it to them.”

  “The end justifies the means,” said Mellors.

  “When the citizens lose hope, there can only be one result—mass panic. And that’s the worst of all possible worlds. Then we’ve lost.” Cole gazed at Mellors with mournful eyes. “You don’t want that, do you, Mr. Mellors?”

  Mellors didn’t want to get into it with the president. Mellors decided not to press his luck by arguing any longer and landing on Cole’s shit list.

  “I wouldn’t want that,” said Mellors, backing down.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “But what you said about the vaccine isn’t true,” Mellors found himself muttering.

  Which Cole heard. “This isn’t about the truth. It’s about hope. It’s about giving the people the will to go on. That’s the most I can accomplish as president.”

  When Cole departed with the TV crew in tow, Mellors turned to Slocum as the two of them remained by themselves in the studio.

  Slocum dug a pack of Orbit mint gum from his trouser pocket, unwrapped a stick, and tossed the stick into his mouth.

  “The DNI gave it to me,” he said by way of explanation.

  Mellors didn’t care. He had other things on his mind.

  “Think of the irreparable harm the president is causing by distributing phony vaccines for the plague,” he said. “The public will lose all faith in the government when they see the vaccine doesn’t work. We can’t function without the people supporting us.”

  “He just got through telling you about the 40 percent that the vaccine won’t help,” said Slocum, chewing his gum, savoring its minty tang. “When the vaccine fails, the people will ascribe it to the vagaries of the laws of probability.”

  “That’s not gonna wash,” said Mellors, getting worked up. “The fact of the matter is, the phony vaccine will never work and, sooner or later, the people are gonna catch on when nobody is saved by it.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re crediting the people with more intelligence than they merit.”

  “They will catch o
n, and then there’ll be hell to pay. Cole really will have a riot on his hands. The people are gonna be furious, and they’re gonna take it out on him and us.”

  “You’re letting your imagination run wild, Scot. The president didn’t get elected because he’s a fool. His mind’s a steel trap when it comes to reading the people. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s how to manage the electorate.”

  “He’s off the mark on this one. If there’s one thing the people hate, it’s being lied to.”

  Slocum stepped closer to Mellors, held Mellors’s arm, and confided in him. “Look, we’re all men of the world here. We know how the game is played in the Beltway. If the president takes any heat from this, he can claim that the CDC misinformed him about the effectiveness of the vaccine.”

  Mellors nodded grimly. “Blame it on somebody else.”

  “Scapegoating is how the game is played here. You know that as well as I do. Don’t go pretending you’re a virgin in a whorehouse.”

  This whole episode was leaving a bad taste in Mellors’s mouth. He was beginning to have second thoughts about killing Greg Coogan in an effort to cover up the government’s involvement in the funding of the creation of the zombie virus in a Rotterdam lab. If the government was so corrupt, why should Mellors kill to save it?

  Mellors was somewhat surprised at his qualms. He had never experienced qualms before when following orders by either the director or the president. Was he growing a conscience all of a sudden? For some reason, he could not stomach the president’s lying to the public about discovering a vaccine for the plague. The idea was eating away at him like a slow-acting acid.

  “What if somebody is inoculated with the vaccine and, thinking he’s safe from the bites of the infected cannibals, goes out and attacks the creatures?” he said.

  “And?”

  “And gets bitten and comes down with the plague? Don’t you have a problem with that? Isn’t that on us?”

  “No. We didn’t tell this hypothetical person to go out and attack the ghouls. That’s on him.”