Halverson thought about it. “It’s possible they don’t know we’re here, but unlikely. The neon on the strip should attract them for miles. The things gravitate toward light and sound like moths to a flame.”
“Then what’s keeping them away?”
“I’m convinced there’s something going on here that we don’t know about.”
“You guys have overactive imaginations,” said Emma. “You don’t know a good thing when you got it.”
“Talk about overactive imaginations,” said Chogan.
Emma ignored him. “Kick back and accept it. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. We’ve got a good thing here.”
“But for how long?” said Halverson.
“You wouldn’t be saying this is a good thing if Quantrill took her knife to you,” Chogan told Emma.
“You must’ve got under her skin somehow,” said Emma. “You’re good at doing that, I’ve noticed.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re good at living in cloud-cuckoo-land.”
“There you go again—picking a fight. That’s all you ever want to do.”
“I’m just being honest. If you can’t face the truth, you got problems.”
“You’re the one with problems,” said Emma, her voice rising.
“We’re not gonna get anywhere by jumping down each other’s throats,” said Victoria.
“We need to get out of here,” said Chogan. “That’s what we need to do.”
“But how?” said Halverson. “Both ends of the strip are guarded by Quantrill’s soldiers. They’re not gonna let us out of here.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” said Emma.
“Nobody ever leaves here, except the winners of the lottery,” put in Meers.
“Then let’s take a surface street,” said Chogan.
“The walking dead are on the surface streets,” said Halverson.
“How do you know? You only tried one of them.”
“I have a feeling they’re all the same. The ghouls seem to be roaming at will all around the strip.”
“That begs another question. Why doesn’t Quantrill take her men over there and blow away the things?”
Halverson shook his head in bafflement. “Nothing jibes around here.”
“You got that right.”
“The thing I can’t figure out is why the bones were all in one place.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why weren’t they spread all over the sidewalks and on the cars? Why just the intersection?”
“I wasn’t there. I don’t know.”
“Could the ghouls have collected the bones and put them there?” said Victoria.
“Why would they do that?” said Halverson.
“I don’t know why they do anything. Even they probably don’t know why they do anything.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Halverson caught sight of Quantrill staring at him from the stage, her hand continuously squeezing and unsqueezing the tennis ball in it.
“Let’s break up now and hash this over later,” he said. “Guess who’s watching us.”
“I’m not afraid of that ballbuster,” said Chogan through clenched teeth.
“We can fix her wagon later.”
“Fuck her wagon. I’m gonna rearrange her face so she looks uglier than a zombie. She’s gonna wish she never set eyes on me by the time I get through with her.”
Their eyes averted from Quantrill’s steady gaze, Halverson, Victoria, Emma, Chogan, and Meers filed out of the back door of the auditorium.
CHAPTER 45
Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center
President Cole was sitting at his wooden desk in front of the TV camera, preparing to make a speech in his TV studio. He was straightening a small pile of papers on his desktop, but he wasn’t going to read from them. He would read his speech from the teleprompter.
Slocum and Mellors stood behind the camera watching Cole.
“This I gotta see,” said Mellors.
“Making speeches is his chops,” said Slocum.
“He just bombed the city of New York back to the town of Bedrock. How’s he gonna spin his way out of this?”
“You’ll see.”
“All quiet on the set,” said the ponytailed white-haired director, clad in jeans and perched in a chair behind the cameraman.
“My fellow Americans, I have good news to report,” said Cole, staring into the camera’s lens. “We are victorious on the eastern and western fronts. We have routed the cannibals in New York and California. Our bombs have annihilated the forces of the cannibals. The infected are in full retreat.”
“Is anybody still alive out there gonna believe this?” Mellors whispered to Slocum.
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“But New York and California lie in ruins.”
“He’ll have the public eating out of his hands in no time like he always does after he makes a speech,” said Slocum.
“Our forces are victorious,” said Cole. “We are taking back our country from the enemy. Nobody can stop us now. The eastern and western fronts are just the beginning. We will pile up victory after victory until the cannibals are obliterated. We are teaching them the hard way that nobody can stand up to the might and main of the United States of America.”
“I feel like cheering,” Slocum told Mellors.
“How can you be serious?” said Mellors. “We just bombed our own country.”
“It’s Cole. He knows the right things to say and how to say them. His speeches always cheer me up.”
“He didn’t even write the speech. His speechwriter did.”
“But Cole has a great delivery, great poise.”
Mellors wasn’t cheered up. He felt devastated. The indelible image of the bombed-out rubble of New York City engulfed in flames was seared onto his brain. What was Cole’s next step in waging war against the walking dead? Mellors wondered.
“Everything is under control,” Cole told the camera lens. “My fellow Americans, if you haven’t done so already, be sure to get your vaccines. It is true the war is going our way now, but the plague is still out there. You need to exercise extreme caution when venturing outside. And make sure you get your vaccines. Isolated pockets of diseased cannibals continue to roam the countryside. Only New York and California are safe at this time.”
“He knows the vaccines are worthless,” Mellors told Slocum. “Why does he keep harping on them?”
“It’s of utmost importance that the people feel safe,” said Slocum. “We can’t have them panicking and rioting.”
“My fellow Americans, try to make your way to New York or California,” said Cole. “These two states are cleared of infected cannibals, though there may be a few stragglers still out there. Be careful, no matter what you do. And do not fear. We will be victorious in short order. Everything is under control, and we are winning.”
“New York’s a pile of junk,” Mellors told Slocum. “Its infrastructure’s destroyed. Why should anyone go there? Can you imagine the traumatic effect the sight of it in ruins will wreak on survivors? Is he doing the right thing telling people to go there?”
“The cannibals have been decimated there. At least people will be safe from the plague in New York.”
“Traumatized but safe in a pile of rubble.”
Slocum turned on Mellors. “All you do is complain. What do you think we should do? If you have suggestions, you should let the president know them.”
Mellors flinched at Slocum’s suddenly aggressive mien. “I don’t think we should be bombing our own country.”
“How else do we get rid of the infected? We don’t have the manpower to do it any other way. We haven’t got an army, navy, or marines. All we’ve got left is bombs and drones.”
“Point taken. But we just may end up wiping ourselves off the face of the earth if we continue these bombing raids.”
“You better tone down your rhetoric when talking to the president.”
“I’m not talking to
the president,” said Mellors heatedly.
“A word to the wise is sufficient. You may end up getting canned or worse.”
Mellors did a slow burn. He couldn’t help himself. The sight of New York City lying in ruins had gotten under his skin. Times Square, the Empire State Building, Grand Central Station . . . all reduced to smoldering detritus. It was a thousand times worse than 9/11.
He fought to rein in his rage. He told himself to keep his cool. He was experiencing a change of heart about Halverson, as well. Mellors decided he wasn’t going to try to kill Halverson with a drone’s missile again, no matter what his orders were, even if he found out where Halverson had gone to ground. This whole thing was spiraling out of control . . .
“I’m OK,” said Mellors, gathering himself.
“We’re all under a lot of stress,” said Slocum. “That’s all. We need to keep our heads till this crisis is over.”
“Rest easy, my fellow Americans,” Cole told the camera with an unflinching gaze. “Everything is under control. It will take more than a two-bit plague to scotch the fire of the American spirit. Be patient. Total victory will be ours soon. God bless all of you.”
The soft strains of “The Star-spangled Banner” suffused the studio and became a crescendo.
CHAPTER 46
Las Vegas
“Rest easy, he says,” said Chogan, sitting in a restaurant near the lobby of the Mirage watching the flat-panel TV above the bar. “He just blew up New York and California and he tells us to rest easy. Can you believe this?”
Halverson, Victoria, Emma, and Meers sat at a table with Chogan listening to him rant about Cole.
The image of the president had left the screen, replaced by an image of the Stars and Bars fluttering on a flagpole in the wind as “The Star-spangled Banner” played in the background.
“Sometimes I wonder whose side he’s on,” said Halverson.
“At least he’s trying to do something to stop the spread of the plague,” said Meers tentatively, not fully supporting Cole’s actions.
“He’s doing more harm than good,” said Chogan. “I hate politicians.”
“You don’t say,” said Victoria.
“Tell us what you really think,” said Emma.
Chogan shrugged. “I guess I’m not very good at hiding it.”
Quantrill strutted into the restaurant with McLellan and Kwang-Sun at her side.
“Anything the matter here?” she said.
“We were listening to the president’s speech,” said Chogan, not pleased to see Quantrill. He cut his eyes toward the knife in its sheath at her waist. He wanted to return the favor of her stabbing him in the thigh. “That’s all.”
“Do you think we can feel safe now after the bombings?”
Chogan sniggered. “Safe as steers in a slaughterhouse.”
Quantrill ignored him. She was gazing at Halverson.
“Where were you last night?” she asked.
“Outside.” Halverson wasn’t about to tell her about the walking dead and the piles of bones he had discovered.
“Do you have any witnesses?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you stay on the strip?”
“Yeah,” Halverson lied. He didn’t think it was any of her business where he was, anyway.
“It’s dangerous to leave the strip. Don’t go wandering away from it.”
“The walking dead are out there,” said Kwang-Sun.
“What did you say your profession was, Mr. Halverson?” Quantrill asked.
“I was a journalist when we used to have jobs,” answered Halverson.
“That’s funny.”
“Why?” said Halverson, puzzled.
“Because I looked up your name on the Internet—”
“What Internet? Somebody’s jamming it.”
“The government’s handiwork, I’m sure.”
“Then how did you get on the Internet?”
“The jamming isn’t constant. Every so often my IT boys can get onto the Internet. Anyway, I googled your name Chad Halverson and I couldn’t find a single byline for it.”
“That’s not surprising. I don’t have many readers.” Halverson could feel his heartbeat accelerating and his palms sweating.
He knew his cover story had not been well prepared. In truth, he had made it up on the fly after the plague hit. Ordinarily, when the Company prepared a cover story, or legend, for one of its agents, they planted background material that could be vetted in case somebody got nosy. He had no background information in place this time because he had flown from DC to California not because he was on a mission but for personal reasons—to visit his hospitalized brother. Hence Halverson had no need for a legend.
“In fact, we can’t find any information about you,” said Quantrill. “We ran a credit check on you and came up with nothing. You have no credit. How could a professional journalist in this day and age have no credit? Don’t you think that strange?”
“That’s easily explained. I don’t use credit cards. If you don’t use credit cards, you can’t establish credit.”
“Why don’t you use credit cards?”
“Credit cards are useless with electricity and the Internet out.”
“I mean, before the plague hit.”
“I prefer using cash. That way I don’t go into debt.”
Quantrill stroked her chin and searched Halverson’s face. “There’s no verifiable record of your existence.”
Which was how he stayed off the grid, decided Halverson. He shrugged.
“How do you pay your mortgage?” said Quantrill. “Surely not with cash.”
“I live in an apartment.”
“How did you pay for your car?”
“What car?”
“Didn’t you have a car before the outbreak?”
“I ride the bus.”
Quantrill looked skeptical. “It’s almost as if you’re trying to avoid leaving a trail.”
“What would be the point of that?”
“There could be several reasons.”
“Maybe you’re a criminal,” chimed in Kwang-Sun.
“No doubt some of the people I’ve interviewed would agree with you,” said Halverson.
Kwang-Sun scoffed.
“The journalist that nobody ever heard of,” said Quantrill.
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Halverson. “I’d like my five minutes of fame like everybody else. But my articles don’t attract a lot of readers.”
“More like zero readers.”
“Not a lot of people read nowadays. The profession of journalism isn’t what it used to be.”
“Who are you?”
“I already told you.”
“You’re not on Facebook or Twitter or any of the social media. There’s no listing of Chad Halverson, journalist, anywhere on the Internet. How do you advertise your skills?”
“There is no more Facebook or Twitter.”
“I’m not talking about now. I mean, before the plague.”
“I don’t even have a cell phone.”
“Answer the question.”
“What is the question?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question.”
Halverson shrugged. “I still don’t know what the question is.”
“Without using Facebook or Twitter or a cell phone, how did you used to get jobs?” said Quantrill in frustration.
“Editors contacted me. They’re the only ones who needed to know how to contact me.”
“Do you have a wife?”
“No.”
“Do you have children?”
“No.”
“What did your father do?”
“He was an architect.”
“What about your mother?”
“She was a nurse.”
“I’m tired of playing ‘Twenty Questions,’” said Chogan. “Let’s do something else.”
“You sound like you want to see my knife again,” said Quantrill.
Chogan sneered.
Quantrill turned to Halverson. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” asked Halverson, weary of Quantrill’s fusillade of queries.
“I’m Priscilla Quantrill.”
“What did you used to do for a living?”
“I was on the force, if it’s any of your business.”
“The police force?”
“What other force is there?”
“Are you married?”
“My husband was a fellow officer. He was killed by a street thug in a bank heist gone sour.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Halverson paused a beat. “How did you become the leader here?”
Quantrill pulled a face. “I’m the one asking the questions. I don’t understand why nobody’s ever heard of you, if you really are a journalist.”
“Not all journalists can be rich and famous like Bob Woodward.”
“There could be other reasons you don’t have any credit record,” said Quantrill, her suspicions aroused.
“Maybe he’s an illegal alien,” said Kwang-Sun.
Quantrill locked her eyes on Halverson’s. “Or maybe he’s working for the government.”
Halverson held her gaze. He did his best to control his reactions to Quantrill’s remark. It wasn’t easy. His heart was thumping like a machine gun. If she got it into her noggin that he was working for the CIA, she’d probably have him killed. He wondered if she could hear the rat-a-tat of his heartbeat. To him it sounded deafening.
“You’re both wrong,” said Halverson.
“Let’s see a copy of your birth certificate,” said Kwang-Sun.
“Sure,” said Halverson dryly. He reached for his wallet in his trouser pocket. “Let me just pull it out of my wallet here. I always carry it around with me.”
“Shut up. That’s not funny.”
Halverson stopped reaching for his wallet.
“What about your driver’s license?” said Quantrill.
Grudgingly, Halverson reached for his wallet again. He dug it out, opened it to his driver’s license, and displayed it to Quantrill.
Quantrill squinted at it. “That’s a Virginia license.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Zombie Apocalypse: The Chad Halverson Series Page 102