Zombie Apocalypse: The Chad Halverson Series

by Bryan Cassiday

  “What’s the good news?” asked Emma.

  “You won the lottery,” answered Quantrill.

  “I thought you were holding it later,” said Chogan.

  Emma smiled. “I can’t believe we won. I never win anything.”

  Chogan didn’t share Emma’s joy. “What are the chances we all won?” he said, eyebrow quirked.

  “You don’t look well,” Quantrill told Emma.

  “Not you, too,” said Emma, fed up with people telling her how awful she looked.

  Meers looked downright petrified with fear.

  “This must be your lucky day,” Quantrill told the group of them.

  “Can we decline the prize?” said Chogan, adjusting the position of his wounded leg with a grimace.

  “Why would you want to? Nobody else ever has.”

  “What’s the prize?”

  “You’re about to find out.”

  Meers’s face turned a lighter shade of ashen.

  CHAPTER 52

  Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

  President Cole, General Byrd, Dr. Laslo, Sheila Klauss, Harold Paris, Hilda Molson, Ernest Slocum, and Scot Mellors sat around the table in the Situation Room.

  “Bring it in, Jack,” said Cole.

  The door to the room opened. A buzz-cut military aide lugging the nuclear football entered. The nuclear football consisted of a metallic Zero Halliburton briefcase sheathed in a black leather jacket with a short antenna jutting out near the handle.

  The young aide clad in an army uniform pulled a face as he muscled the forty-five-pound football onto the tabletop near Cole. The aide removed the leather covering, set the briefcase in front of Cole, unlocked it, and opened it. Inside lay the nine-by-twelve-inch Black Book, which contained the targets for nuclear annihilation, and a three-by-five-inch card with authentication codes listed on it.

  From his jacket, Cole removed the “biscuit”—a plastic card with a special code to authorize a nuclear blast printed on it.

  “You can’t be serious, Mr. President,” said Dr. Laslo, watching Cole with consternation.

  “We simply don’t have enough thermite bombs to blast the entire country clean of the virus,” said Cole.

  “You’re crossing the point of no return, Mr. President,” said Klauss.

  “Great decisions make men great. This is my Rubicon.”

  “Not making the decision to drop A-bombs would make you just as great,” said Dr. Laslo. “Even greater, if you ask me.”

  “I’m the one making the decision. I bear the full weight of this decision on my shoulders.”

  “I think we need to give this more thought,” said Slocum.

  “I haven’t made the decision yet. I want to be prepared for when I do make that decision.”

  “When you make the decision?” said Klauss. “You make it sound like it’s inevitable. Don’t you mean if you make the decision?”

  “I repeat, I haven’t made the decision yet,” was all Cole said, face grave. “The question is, how much longer can we hold on?”

  “The technicians tell me we have enough food and supplies stocked here that we can survive in Mount Weather for over a year,” said Slocum.

  “I’m not talking about us. I’m talking about the country. How long can the country last before the plague overruns it and infects or kills everybody?”

  “Not much longer, I would think,” said General Byrd.

  On the flat-panel plasma HDTV on the wall, the map of the United States now showed over 80 percent of the states red with the remaining 20 percent orange.

  “Things aren’t getting any better,” said Cole, eying the map on the TV screen. “In fact, they’re deteriorating at a far more rapid rate than before.”

  “That’s to be expected,” said Dr. Laslo. “The plague is spreading exponentially.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The more people that are infected, the faster the disease spreads.”

  “All the more reason to use the nukes,” said General Byrd.

  “Even if we go nuclear, it doesn’t guarantee our success—if you can call it success,” said Dr. Laslo, his brow furrowed. “We can’t be certain nuclear weapons will eradicate the plague.”

  “The thermite bombs did a mighty good job in New York.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a ‘good’ job, General. More like a devastating job.”

  “My point exactly. And nukes would be even more effective.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  Byrd stiffened in his seat and turned toward Dr. Laslo. “What do you want us to do, Doctor? Wait till all the states are contaminated before we take action? By then everyone will be infected.”

  Dr. Laslo removed the wire-rim spectacles from the bridge of his nose, withdrew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and wiped the lenses, which had fogged up on account of his sweating.

  “If we nuke the entire country, everybody will be dead,” he said.

  He replaced his spectacles on his nose and crinkled it.

  “The point is, there won’t be any more survivors out there if we let the plague progress unchecked,” said Byrd.

  “And there won’t be any survivors out there if we nuke everybody.”

  “We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t,” said Slocum.

  Everybody at the table remained silent for a moment.

  Cole broke the silence. “This is the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make in my life.”

  “I’ll back your decision if you give the green light, Mr. President,” said Byrd.

  “And I’ll need your backing, General. I can’t authorize a nuclear strike without confirmation by the secretary of defense.”

  “I’m well aware of the constitutional demands on my position, sir.”

  “Do you have the code on your person?”

  Byrd felt the breast pocket of his khaki army uniform. “I do indeed, Mr. President.”

  “Once you give the order, there’s no turning back, Mr. President,” said Dr. Laslo.

  “Believe me, I know that,” Cole said somberly.

  Now Cole knew how Harry Truman must have felt when he gave the order to drop Little Boy on Hiroshima at the end of World War II. But then again, Truman had no idea how drastic the results of the explosion would be. It was the first time the A-bomb had ever been used on people. Cole, on the other hand, knew what to expect from nuclear blasts. Only it would be far worse than the one at Hiroshima. Modern nuclear bombs had multiplied their destructive power many times over since the 1940s.

  Cole had the power at his fingertips to unleash blasts the size of which were unheard-of in the annals of history. It was a sobering thought.

  “Nobody will survive these atomic blasts, and you’ll be reducing the country to an uninhabitable radioactive wasteland,” said Dr. Laslo.

  “They’ll survive if they hide in bomb shelters,” said Byrd.

  “How many people do you know that own bomb shelters?”

  “I know quite a few.”

  Dr. Laslo swiped his hand across his forehead. “With your paranoid military mindset, you would.”

  “I resent that remark,” said Byrd, bridling.

  “I’m talking about Joe Six-Pack, the ordinary guy in the streets. Do you think he has a bomb shelter?”

  Byrd shrugged. “It’s his own fault for not being prepared. Anyone with half a brain knows that nuclear war is to be expected in this day and age.”

  “Even if he expects it, how can he afford it? Bomb shelters don’t come cheap.”

  “Not everyone deserves to survive,” Byrd said under his breath.

  “So if you’re poor, you don’t deserve to live. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “You’re putting words in my mouth!”

  “I’m reading between the lines. That’s all.”

  “All I’m saying is that when the WMD start falling, find a bomb shelter to hide in,” said Byrd in irritation.

  Cole rapped his knuckles gently on the tab
letop. “Nuclear blasts are survivable if you take refuge in a bomb shelter. This plague, however, is not survivable. It has a hundred percent kill ratio.”

  “Mr. President, how do you know nuclear blasts are survivable?” asked DNI Molson, toying with a pencil in her hand.

  “This is what my scientists tell me.”

  “But you’ll be dropping A-bombs on a scale never before imagined.”

  “We can ride out atomic blasts in a bomb shelter. The point is, we can’t ride out this plague.”

  “Why can’t we stay in the bomb shelter till the plague is over?” said Molson, pressing the pencil’s eraser against her lip.

  “Because the plague virus will never die unless we destroy it. These infected cannibals will live forever unless somebody kills them.”

  Byrd nodded. “Radioactivity will die off on its own. These walking dead, or whatever they are, are never gonna die unless we kill them.” Byrd leaned back in his chair. “I rest my case.”

  “We should spend all our time and effort finding a vaccine and not dropping atomic bombs,” said Dr. Laslo.

  “Have we made any headway yet finding a vaccine?” asked Cole.

  Dr. Laslo gazed down at the tabletop. “No, I’m sorry to say.”

  “That’s the crux of the problem,” said Byrd, leaning forward, jutting his jaw out. “We just don’t have the time to wait around for the scientists to find a vaccine. By the time they do, if they ever do, everyone will be infected.”

  The air was fairly strumming with the tension between Byrd and Dr. Laslo.

  “We’re all on the same side here, ladies and gentlemen,” said Cole. “Let’s not lose sight of that. We’re all trying to find a solution to the pandemic.”

  Byrd leaned back in his seat, uncoiling like a cobra that had decided to abort its strike.

  CHAPTER 53

  Las Vegas

  Quantrill, Kwang-Sun, and a gaggle of Quantrill’s soldiers led Chogan, Emma, and Meers through the main gaming room at the Mirage past residents hunched over slot machines, which emanated a cacophony of beeps and buzzes. Quantrill led the way into a conference room.

  Fifty-odd residents were sitting in auditorium-style seats in the room, facing the dais.

  Quantrill craned her neck around and took stock of Emma, who was halting after her. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m wiped out,” answered Emma, face drawn. “I couldn’t sleep a wink last night.”

  If she only knew, thought Emma. Emma couldn’t sleep if she wanted to. In fact, Emma felt like she was burning up. She wouldn’t be surprised if she was running a fever. If possible, her wounded foot felt even hotter than the rest of her.

  “You look ill.”

  “All I need is some rest and I’ll be right as rain.”

  Quantrill nodded. “Cheer up. You’re a winner.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Emma, her voice listless. She was growing weaker by the minute.

  “It’s true. Have a seat.”

  Emma sat next to a teenage boy. Clad in an Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt, he had blonde hair and three days’ growth of stubble on his face. A wire in the headphones he was wearing trailed down his neck to an iPod in his jeans’ trouser pocket. His head bobbed and his body rocked in harmony with the music playing in his ears.

  Meers sat down beside Emma, and Chogan sat beside Meers.

  Quantrill mounted the dais.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, smiling in front of the crowd. She made a sweeping gesture with her arms. “The lucky people gathered here have been selected as the winners of the lottery.”

  Emma lolled her head on her shoulder as Quantrill droned on. Emma couldn’t believe it. She actually felt like she was going to sleep . . .

  “You have won a great privilege reserved for a select few,” Quantrill went on.

  Several members of the crowd cheered and clapped. Two teens sitting in front of Emma hooted and waved their arms.

  “More! More!” shouted a young bearded man with towy chestnut hair as he cupped his hands over his mouth.

  “You’re all going on a vacation you’ll never forget,” Quantrill said. “Much as I hate to admit it, you’ll be so happy at your new destination you’ll probably decide not to return here.”

  Meers looked crestfallen. His mouth drooped.

  Emma’s eyes snapped open. She reached for the teenager’s hand that was lying on his thigh beside her.

  He appeared startled for a moment, then raised his eyebrows and shrugged it off. Maybe she was so excited about winning, she needed somebody’s hand to hold, he decided. It wasn’t like she was ugly. Far from it. If she wanted to hold his hand and touch his thigh, it was fine with him. In fact, he felt a tingle in his loins as her hand brushed his thigh. He could feel her hand taking his hand toward her breast. And then—

  He screamed.

  Emma started chewing on his hand, devouring it. In horror he tried to jerk his hand free from her teeth. It didn’t do any good. Her jaws exerted a vise grip on him. He felt her teeth chewing and grinding like edged steel through his flesh and bone.

  At last he tore free.

  Minus his hand, he saw to his shock as he clapped his eyes on his mutilated wrist.

  The severed artery in his wrist sprayed blood all over Emma’s face.

  Emma snagged his blood-drenched wrist and began chewing it.

  Eyes wide, Kwang-Sun darted from the side of the dais down the aisle toward the row of chairs where Emma was seated. Pistol in hand, he threaded his way between the rows of seats and made for Emma. When he reached Chogan, Kwang-Sun stopped, drew a bead on Emma, and fired at her head as she was scarfing down the teenager’s forearm and working her way up toward his elbow.

  Emma’s head exploded as the bullet exited from the back of her skull, taking bone shards and dollops of brains with it.

  Holding up his amputated arm, the teenager screamed as blood spurted from his ragged flesh.

  Kwang-Sun didn’t hesitate. He shot the teen in the head.

  The boy slumped in his seat, motionless, his headphones askew on his shattered skull.

  Residents sitting near the gunfire and the spilling blood bolted out of their seats, screaming.

  Chogan and Meers scrambled to escape the carnage.

  “Watch out for the blood,” said Kwang-Sun, leading the way to the aisle. “Don’t get any blood or brains on you.”

  Nobody had to be told twice. They barreled away from the corpses, tripping over their own feet in their haste to get away from the infected.

  Clear of the cadavers, they checked their clothes and bodies for any signs of the teen’s contaminated blood on them. As one of the walking dead, Emma did not bleed. But her brain matter was a different story. The grey spongy ooze had splattered everywhere and had to be avoided at all costs, as it was highly contagious.

  Kwang-Sun inspected the corpses and realized most of Emma’s brain matter had spattered onto the dead teen who had been sitting next to her, while most of the teen’s blood had gushed onto Emma’s face and chest.

  Quantrill hustled over to Chogan and Meers. “Why didn’t you tell me she was infected?”

  “I didn’t know,” said Chogan. “How was I supposed to know?”

  “Are you infected?” demanded Quantrill, waving her gun at him.

  “No.”

  “Is anyone else in your group infected?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “When did she get infected?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t even know she was infected.”

  Agitated, standing with his crutch, staring at Emma’s crumpled body with most of its head blown off, Chogan could not believe his eyes. Somewhere along the line, one of the walking dead had bitten her. He had no idea when or where it had happened. He had seen no evidence of a bite on her hands or arms. She must have been bitten somewhere else on her body.

  What difference did it make now where she had been bitten? he decided. She was dead and gone.

  “Was she i
nfected before she came to Vegas?” asked Quantrill.

  “I don’t know,” answered Chogan. “She never said anything to me about it.”

  “What about you?” Quantrill asked Meers. “Did she say anything about being bitten to you?”

  “No,” answered Meers. “All she ever talked about was her baby Millie.”

  “What baby? Where’s the baby? The baby might be infected too.” Quantrill cast around the corpses for a baby.

  “She was nuts,” said Chogan. “She didn’t have a baby with her. She used to have a baby, and the baby got killed in the plague. The others told me that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She was carrying around an imaginary baby on her back. She couldn’t cope with the reality of losing her child.”

  “She was in denial,” observed Meers.

  “She couldn’t separate fantasy from reality,” said Quantrill. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “She was off the wall is what I’m saying.” Meers paused. “You can’t blame her, though. These walking dead things would drive anyone nuts.”

  Chogan frowned and shook his head, thinking it over. “What I don’t understand is, how did she become infected even if she was bitten? Isn’t that vaccine we took supposed to prevent us from getting the plague.”

  “She got bitten before she was inoculated, perhaps.”

  “But didn’t the president say the vaccine was supposed to work even if you had been bitten already by a ghoul?”

  “I thought I heard that, too,” said Quantrill. She glanced at the site of her vaccination on her upper arm. “It makes you wonder about the effectiveness of this vaccine.”

  “I’m not a doctor,” said Meers, “but the way I understand it, no vaccine is a hundred percent effective.”

  “You’re talking about flu vaccines.”

  Meers shrugged. “Like I said, I’m no doctor, but that’s what I was led to believe about all vaccines.”

  “What about smallpox vaccines? They seem to work all the time.”

  “Do they?”

  Quantrill chewed it over. She harrumphed. “I’m not really sure anymore. I’m not an expert either.”

  “I could have sworn Cole said this plague vaccine was supposed to work even after a ghoul bit a person,” said Chogan.