Zombie Apocalypse: The Chad Halverson Series

by Bryan Cassiday

Swiggum chortled. “You got that right. If you’re out of work, you’re dead.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

  In his office, a painting of a bay racehorse hanging from the wall behind him, Mellors glanced at his wristwatch. He started in his seat behind his desk.

  He had become so absorbed in searching through the documents in Coogan’s encrypted silver laptop that he had lost track of time. He found himself becoming obsessed with the apocalypse equation, whatever on earth it was.

  He had almost forgot it was Terror Tuesday, the day of the week that the president assigned the disposition matrix in the Situation Room. Mellors could not blame himself. He had lost all track of time in this bunker. He never knew whether it was day or night, let alone what day of the week it was. He never saw the sun. He never saw the moon and the stars. How could he be expected to know what day it was? If it wasn’t for the fact that his watch had a weekly calendar on it, he would have no idea whether it was Monday or Saturday.

  Maybe it did not even matter what day it was, he decided. Every day was the same. The weather never changed in this cement mausoleum of a biosphere. He never left the bunker and had no inkling of what the weather was outside. He wondered what point there was in keeping track of the day of the week. Or the month. Or the year, for that matter.

  He bolted out of his seat. He did not want to be late to President Cole’s meeting. He wanted to do everything he could to stay on Cole’s good side. Maybe, in the end, Mellors would have to ask Cole about the apocalypse equation. Maybe the president had some idea what it was all about.

  Mellors sprang out of his office to the Situation Room, which happened to be located on the bottom floor, prevailing theory holding that the deeper the room was, the safer it was from aerial bombardment. It was the same theory that held sway for Hitler’s bunker during World War II. The Situation Room was, in fact, President Cole’s war room.

  Mellors ducked between the closing doors of the elevator into the car at the end of the hall.

  He edged through the partially open doors with seconds to spare and pushed the B (for basement) button on the control panel.

  Cole was preparing to address the remnants of his administration.

  Ernest Slocum, the CIA director and Mellors’s immediate boss, was sitting next to Cole’s chair, which Cole had vacated when he stood up. Secretary of Defense Eugene D. Byrd was sitting on the other side of Cole. FBI Director Harold Paris, Director of National Intelligence Hilda Molson, and Director of the Department of Homeland Security Sheila Klauss completed the group that ringed the table.

  On a large flat-panel HDTV screen mounted on one wall was the image of a map of the United States. The entire map was colored yellow, signifying that Cole and his administration had purged the country of the plague. When the plague had infected all states of the union the map had previously been red.

  On another wall were mounted a bank of CCTV screens that were displaying images from CCTV cameras that constantly monitored the exterior of the Mount Weather bunker complex. Scenes of devastated, bombed-out, charred forests filled some screens, while other screens showed images of the roads that led to the entrances and exits to the bunker. Synchronized video cameras scanned the entire perimeter of the bunker at all times.

  Without further ado and without fanfare, Mellors took his seat beside Byrd. Mellors disliked sitting next to Byrd because of Byrd’s notorious bad breath. The man must never brush his teeth, decided Mellors, and for sure didn’t believe in mouthwash.

  Everyone in the group was in their fifties, save for Mellors who was the youngest at forty-six.

  Cole himself was sixty and had short black hair shot with grey streaks. He projected the amiable image of the guy next door with his Joe Six-Pack face, even though he had graduated from Yale, like the DCI Ernest Slocum. In point of fact, Cole’s well-crafted image of geniality was at odds with his real self, Mellors knew. This was the same guy who had rained nukes down on the entire nation of the USA in order to expunge the plague, no matter what the collateral damage might be. He was the president, but he was also the commander in chief, the one that had given the order to carpet bomb the country with nukes.

  “Is everybody set to start?” said Cole.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” said Director Paris, adjusting his blonde comb-over with a sweep of his fingers.

  Mellors was surprised that NSA Director Burton Holmes was never invited to participate in these Terror Tuesday meetings, but he never was. Mellors figured it was because Holmes neither enforced nor made policy. He only eavesdropped—on the entire world.

  Terror Tuesdays at the Situation Room weren’t about tapping phone lines or reading everybody’s e-mails. They were about the disposition matrix.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” said Cole by way of introduction as he stood and his administration sat around him.

  Mellors was startled to hear Cole call out his name.

  “Yes, Mr. President?” said Mellors in a flurried voice.

  “What’s the sitrep on Chad Halverson?”

  “We figure he was infected during the plague or was killed during the atomic explosions.”

  “‘Figure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have any facts to back up your assumption?”

  “We don’t have a corpus delicti, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “That’s right. We don’t have Halverson’s corpse.”

  Head down, Cole shuffled a clutch of papers on the tabletop as he stood.

  When he looked up he said, “I’m adding Halverson’s name to the disposition matrix.”

  “Why can’t we just call a spade a spade, Mr. President? It’s a kill list.”

  “As I just said, I’m adding his name to the disposition matrix.”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary. He’s already—”

  Cole cut him off with a chop of his hand. “Do we have any other suggestions for the disposition matrix?” he asked, searching the faces that surrounded him.

  “I nominate the secretary-general of the UN,” said Byrd, his equine head leveled at Cole, his barrel chest festooned with his bemedaled uniform. “Our good friend Mr. Ho.”

  “You mean the guy who declared himself president of the world because he’s the head of the UN?” said Slocum.

  “That’s the guy, all right. He’s a perfect candidate for the disposition matrix.”

  “I thought he was killed in the nuclear blasts in New York,” said Director Klauss.

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “How could he have survived?”

  “In a blast shelter, what else? Like us.”

  “Chad Halverson is a threat to national security,” said Cole, reclaiming the floor. “He must be dealt with. The sooner the better.”

  “Who is this guy?” said Klauss. “I never heard of him.”

  “He’s one of ours gone rogue,” said Slocum, smoothing his bespoke suit.

  “We don’t know that he’s gone rogue,” said Mellors.

  “He refuses to report back to us. He must have gone rogue.”

  “This isn’t up for discussion,” chimed in Cole.

  “We need to make the right decision, Mr. President,” said Mellors.

  “You don’t need to make any decisions. I’m the one who makes the decisions.”

  “I know that, Mr. President. I’m just saying we haven’t got any proof that Halverson has betrayed us. All we know is he knows more than he should.”

  “That’s the point,” said Slocum. “What he knows can bring this administration down. He can destroy what’s left of our government.”

  “Just because he can doesn’t mean he will, especially if he’s dead. And I’m sure he is dead.”

  “I don’t want to discuss this matter any further, gentlemen,” said Cole. “You have your orders. Chad Halverson’s name is forthwith officially added to the disposition m
atrix.”

  Mellors’s previous orders from the president concerning Halverson had been capture him dead or alive. Now it was strictly dead. Mellors wasn’t sure why Cole had bumped Halverson’s name to the kill list. Could it be possible that Halverson knew even more about the government’s involvement in the funding of the zombie virus experiments at the Erasmus Medical Center in Rotterdam than Mellors did? Was it this other intel that Mellors was not privy to that Cole feared? Instead of killing Halverson, they should be debriefing him. He might have intel about the apocalypse equation.

  Or did Cole suspect that Halverson knew more, even though Halverson didn’t, in fact, know more? wondered Mellors. What exactly was Halverson supposed to know anyway? It didn’t seem to Mellors that Halverson’s knowledge of the government’s funding of the Erasmus virus experiments was enough by itself to get his name added to the kill list.

  Mellors didn’t know. He could only speculate. And how did Orchid, the transhumanists, and the apocalypse equation fit in with Erasmus? Mellors knew courtesy of the documents on Coogan’s laptop that there was some connection, but Mellors didn’t know the specifics. Had Coogan confided these specifics to Halverson during his last phone conversation with Halverson before Mellors had shot Coogan dead to shut him up?

  Mellors was convinced the transhumanists in the Orchid Organization had a hand in the Rotterdam virus experiments that had unleashed the plague on the world.

  “What about Ho, Mr. President?” said the seated Byrd, jutting his blocky jaw up at Cole away from Mellors, sparing Mellors the eye-popping reek of Byrd’s halitosis.

  Cole cocked his head toward Byrd. “Adding Ho to the matrix could have international repercussions. I need to take his addition under advisement.”

  “In my humble opinion, Ho’s name should be promoted to the top of the list. He’s the biggest threat to our government at this point. We need to drone him ASAP.”

  Mellors found Byrd’s use of humble ironic. Mellors doubted Byrd had a humble bone in his body.

  “He may already be dead, General,” said Cole.

  “I’ll believe it when I see his corpse,” said Byrd. He turned to consider the other faces around him. “Maybe you’re all forgetting the fact that Ho was the one who launched a missile at us here in Area B not so long ago.” Byrd’s eyes flitted from face to face.

  “It’s no good pleading your case to them. I’m the one who decides whose name gets posted on the disposition matrix.”

  Chastened, Byrd leaned back in his chair and kept his own counsel.

  CHAPTER 21

  Nevada

  Halverson’s left hand was acting up. It had not healed properly after the militia had captured him and had broken it in Las Vegas before the government nuked Vegas. Nobody had set the fractured bones in his hand. Therefore they did not grow back straight. A doctor would have to rebreak his hand and reset it—if he ever found a doctor. He had only limited use of the misshapen fingers in it. And they would ache periodically.

  Scrutinizing his left hand he opened and closed it as best he could, wincing with the effort.

  “What’s wrong with your hand?” asked Victoria.

  They were standing shoehorned into the back of the stake truck amongst the serried furniture as the vehicle pitched forward through the desert, jouncing over the uneven terrain, blazing a path over the dirt. Victoria was standing next to a mattress that was standing lengthwise on its side.

  “I don’t have full use of it.”

  “I couldn’t set the bones in it. I don’t know how to.”

  “I’m not blaming you. You’re not a doctor. How could you know how to set broken bones?”

  Leaning against the mattress Victoria held onto a vertical wooden stake on the side of the truck and peered off into the desert. “What do you think of Swiggum and this lot?”

  “They’re giving us a ride. That’s what counts. We’d die in the desert if we kept walking.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Something doesn’t add up about them.” Blinking her eye she wiped a piece of dirt out of it with her fingers.

  “They’re refugees like the rest of us, now that the country’s been nuked.”

  “That’s not what I mean either.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Look at all this furniture back here.”

  Halverson swept his eyes over the furniture. “So?”

  “It looks like it all belongs to one family. Didn’t you think they were all related to each other when we first met them?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “That’s because this furniture looks like it belongs to a family that’s moving.”

  Halverson nodded. “That’s what I thought at first. But Swiggum said they collected it on their trip.”

  “But that’s not something a bunch of strangers would do. Go around searching for furniture. Would they?”

  “Why not?”

  Victoria frowned. “A family would transport their furniture with them. Strangers wouldn’t. They’d wait till they arrived where they’re going and then find furniture.”

  Halverson mulled it over. “I don’t know. It’s not exactly business as usual after both the plague and nukes wrecked the entire country. People can’t be expected to act like they normally do.”

  Victoria shrugged. “I think it’s hinky.”

  “What are you suggesting? That these guys robbed this truck from a family?”

  Maybe she was right, decided Halverson. There was something about Swiggum that was bothering him, but he could not put his finger on it. There seemed to be an angry streak or something inside Swiggum that Halverson could sense like an undercurrent in Swiggum’s mien just waiting to burst out.

  It was probably nothing, decided Halverson, shaking it off. Swiggum had every right to be angry. After all, a flesh eater had mutilated him. Who wouldn’t be angry after something like that?

  “I don’t know,” said Victoria. “All I know is, it doesn’t feel right.”

  “They may have found the loaded truck abandoned in the desert and commandeered it. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing.” She stared ahead of them. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  Halverson followed her gaze and felt the stake truck slowing down, Probst easing up on the gas.

  Directly in front of them, a large silver bus was bearing down on them, churning up a roiling cloud of dust behind it.

  “Not everybody got killed by the nukes, it seems,” said Halverson.

  “You sound disappointed,” said Victoria.

  “It’s not disappointment. It’s concern. Society was annihilated by the bombs and by the plague. What’s gonna take its place?”

  “You worry too much.”

  “Yeah, it’s only an apocalypse.”

  Victoria ignored his sarcasm. She watched the bus approaching them, its metallic silver paint glistening in the sun’s rays. She felt Swiggum’s stake truck pull over as it waited for the bus to catch up to them.

  The better part of twenty feet away from the stake truck, the bus ground to a halt and blasted its air horn.

  “What’s that mean?” Victoria asked Halverson.

  “I don’t like the looks of it,” he answered, shrugging his MP7 off his shoulder and into his hands. “Maybe we should turn the truck around and beat it.”

  “Too late.”

  Halverson saw Swiggum and the rest of the passengers in the front seat pile out of the truck.

  “Let’s give them backup,” said Halverson.

  Halverson and Victoria wormed their way through the cluttered furniture and hopped off the flatbed onto the desert. They circled around the truck to Swiggum and his crew.

  The bus driver leaned on his air horn again.

  “What’s with that guy?” said Swiggum.

  “I can’t see who’s in there with that tinted windshield they got,” said Probst, standing beside Swiggum.

  “So maybe it’s not the Seventh Cavalry come to rescue us, huh?”


  Swiggum drew his pistol from its holster.

  “How many people you think are in that bus?” said Probst.

  “Dunno. Looks pretty big. Could hold a lot.”

  “Could also be empty.”

  As if in response, two side doors wheezed open on the bus, and a phalanx of passengers clad in white full-body hazmat uniforms spilled out onto the desert, M4 carbines at port arms. The figures arranged themselves methodically in a row in front of the parked bus as if preparing for a pitched battle.

  “Looks like they mean business,” said Swiggum.

  “What’s this all about?” said Probst. “What’s with that getup they’re wearing?”

  “Hazmat uniforms,” said Halverson.

  “They must be worried about the radiation level,” said Swiggum.

  “I don’t blame them.”

  “So what’s with all the artillery?” said Probst, starting to fidget.

  One of the uniformed figures stepped forward.

  “Throw down your weapons,” he said through the microphone in his headgear.

  “Who are you guys?” said Swiggum.

  “We’re the guys with the M4s.”

  “A joker,” Swiggum muttered to Probst. “I love jokers,” he hissed.

  “I knew we shouldn’t’ve stopped,” said Simone.

  Nordstrom raised his camera and snapped a picture of the disgorged bus passengers. “They don’t look like friendly dudes, do they? More like bogeys.”

  “What do we do?” asked Probst.

  “We could shoot it out,” answered Swiggum, sweeping his gaze across the array of armed opponents.

  “I don’t like our chances,” said Halverson. “There’s more of them, and they’ve got more firepower.”

  “What if those uniforms are bulletproof?” said Probst.

  “I never thought of that,” conceded Swiggum, lowering his pistol a smidgen.

  “Even if they aren’t, those guys outnumber us by at least five to one,” said Halverson. “And there may be more of them in the bus.”

  “There’s only one thing to do,” said Probst.

  Gingerly, he reached for his handgun and tossed it to the ground in front of him.